And I Can't Hide
by Galen Peoples
Summary: Alt. eps. 16 to 21: Angst, suspicion, superpowers, and cosmic awe in the desert. The Six have the artifact, but what is it?, some lose or gain a parent, Topolsky & Nasedo are back, Valenti & Amy are on again...and there are people out there who k n o w.
1. Parts 1 through 3

**...And I Can't Hide**

by Galen Peoples

**Prefatory**

**MEMO**

**TOP SECRET**

From: TSJ

To: JK

_The rights to the characters and situations of _Roswell _are the property of Warner Brothers, Jason Katims Productions, Twentieth Century Fox, Fox, Regency Television, and Melinda Metz._

...but I don't have to tell you that, right? No, the reason for this memo is to alert you to a containment breach: the bird has flown the coop—or the alien flown the pod.

I allude to the first-season scripts we ditched—those the network had deemed "too soft." They wanted woowoo, so we gave 'em woowoo: that new character, wassername— Bathsheba? Eustacia?—and a mutated story arc.

Remember what I said then: Shred the scripts! Destroy all copies! You don't want the fans getting wind of them.

Well, bad news: somebody's broken that wind. We had a fan interning here (I know it's policy not to hire them, he lied), and he crept into the crypt—um, vault—found the scripts, and downloaded them. And by the time he was peached on, he was gone. Now my spies report he's turning them into fan fiction stories. Which means more of what we didn't want—

_Readers of the lost arc._

**Episode 1.16X**

**When the Going Gets Tough**

"Grounded," Liz Parker wrote in her journal (which most sixteen-year-olds would have called a diary) under the date Wednesday, March 1. "Grounded on top of being grounded. Hmm, wonder what the technical term for that is." She considered. "Fresh-grounded? No, that sounds like coffee."

She felt her mind straying, and sucked on her gel pen to help herself focus her thoughts. As often, they turned to Max Evans, her boyfriend (though she hardly ever called him so: the designation seemed not to fit somehow). Her parents and his had split them up for several days by grounding them both; he had served his sentence, but hers remained in effect through the end of the week—three more days. Then they would be together for good. Or so she hoped; in the past there had been problems.

This was their second grounding in a row. The act that had occasioned it was having sneaked out while being grounded already. But it had been worth the additional punishment. On their excursion, they had found something wonderful: an artifact of another world. It was a black stone, or something like a stone, with a strange inlaid symbol, almost a spiral—two nearly contiguous arcs with a spot in the middle. At first it shone icy blue, but soon the light died out, and so far it had stayed out. They had seen the same symbol before: once on a cave wall, and once in the form of a pendant that Max's sister now had in her keeping.

Liz did not know how to record all of this in her journal. And she did not want to; the book had been stolen once, and might be stolen again. Last time the thief had been one of her friends; next time it might be—whoever was out there, watching them.

Before having met Max and since having grown old enough to choose, she had lived science: biology mainly. The worlds the microscope revealed to her fascinated her more than the one she saw unaided. The operations of those worlds seemed enigmatic until they were explained—those that had been explained. Those that had not, she planned to make her life's work. Her future was clearly mapped out.

—until the previous September. Then an unlooked-for event had added a bend to her intended course: she had died. While waitressing at the Crashdown Cafe (the family business), she had taken a bullet in the stomach; the wound had been fatal. But she was not dead now. Max Evans had given her a jump start.

Max was one of the loners in her class, a boy many girls wondered and, sometimes, daydreamed about. He had reached out to her as God reached out to Adam on the Sistine Chapel ceiling, and she had reawakened to see him gazing down at her full of worry, and more than worry. He warned her to keep quiet, doused her with ketchup to account for the bloodstains, and was then pulled away by the others who were like him (as far as anyone could be like him): Isabel, his adoptive sister, and Michael Guerin, his best friend—his only friend except Liz.

She kept quiet, almost, about her resurrection. When questioned by her parents and Sheriff Valenti, she said nothing. But when her two best friends, Maria Deluca and Alex Whitman, began pressing her, the secret began to bite at her like a flea. By then it had expanded to include the fact that Max and the others were, as he put it, "not of this Earth." And soon she told all. This relieved her of her itch, but stung her with regret for violating the trust Max had placed in her. In any case, now they were six: those who knew.

Roswell, NM was famous for aliens, but none of its other residents had ever met one—or not knowingly. A hot, dry, drowsy little city (pop. 44,975), Roswell had stirred to life of a kind one hundred thirty years earlier, popping up in the middle of the flat desert like a popcorn kernel in a frying pan. From its boundaries the desert extended vastly far in all directions, a cosmos unto itself. And from out there, or from something that lay out there, one hundred twenty years after the city's birth, the three children appeared. Six years old, their charts read, but that was a guess; no one, including themselves, knew their ages. Or their place of origin; that was for them yet to discover.

At the school they attended now, West Roswell High, where the social order was sharply defined, Max and Isabel, along with a majority of the student body, occupied the higher tiers. But the district also encompassed the trailer park where Michael lived, as well as a section of trailer-like houses on the outskirts, so that the kids from that side of the tracks rubbed shoulders with those from the other. And Earth kids, unbeknownst to them (that is, all but three), were doing the same with their extragalactic counterparts.

That Wednesday at the Crashdown, shortly before closing, the six were clustered in and around the booth nearest the rear door labeled "Employees Only." Three of them were leaning over the seat; one of these had on a chef's apron, and the others had antennae (artificial, not real), which bedecked the tiaras that accompanied their servers' uniforms. Shielded by the backs of these three, by a row of Tabasco sauce bottles, and by the shoebox housing it, the artifact Max and Liz had found was sitting on the table.

Alex had been studying it for nearly five minutes while the others watched. Finally he sat back.

"What do you make of it?" asked Max.

"Material's like nothing I ever saw before."

Isabel made a sound that was not quite a laugh. "Why would you? Have you been to our home planet? Have you been _anywhere_?"

Alex threw her an aggrieved look. "Hey, your set, okay?"

"Sorry. Guess I'm on edge."

"But what is it?" asked Liz. Nobody volunteered an answer. "Okay, we'll take turns. I'll start." She did not have to inspect the object further; she had examined it thoroughly while she and Max were bringing it back. "I think—it's a guide," she said finally. "When you're lost, it shows you the way." Again nobody had any comment. Liz turned to Michael, who was standing next to her. "You go next. What's your guess?"

He answered without hesitation. "A weapon."

"No, just the opposite," countered his girlfriend. "It's a—harmonizer."

"Harmonizer?" Isabel repeated. "As in music?"

Maria shook her head. "Don't know, it just came to me. Alex? What do you say it is?"

"A gold mine—if it could be mass-produced. Imagine what a great novelty item it'd make."

Isabel shook her head. "Alex, seriously."

"I _am_ being serious."

Max, the next in line, deliberated for half a minute before giving his diagnosis. "I think it's a database. With information on where we came from and why we're here."

"Which doesn't include me, I bet," Liz said glumly.

Max reached up and squeezed her hand. "Wrong."

Last up was Isabel. "It's a generator, all right?" she said, sounding sure of herself but not happy about it.

"Like an electrical generator?" asked Alex.

"Exactly like. It can boost our powers to the nth degree. I'm surprised you don't feel it, Max." She felt more than that, but was reluctant to put her feeling into words. The artifact was more than a power booster; it was an agent of change, and it would bring about the end of the life they knew. She was not ready to face that.

"If we can only figure out how to get it working," Michael mused.

Isabel shivered. "I hope we never do."

Her brother looked at her in surprise. "Why?"

She did not answer him. But to Alex she said, "Walk me home, will you?" Though technically a question, it was more in the nature of a command.

Alex seemed not to mind, however. "My pleasure!" he exclaimed—and he slid out of his seat so fast he bumped his knee on the table.

Isabel got up rather more cautiously. "But by the back alley," she added, "so no one sees us." This dimmed Alex's glow a little, but he faithfully limped out after her regardless.

There was a shout from the front. "Yo, anybody on duty in this joint?"

The servers rotated their antennae in that direction. "I'll take it," offered Maria. And with her departure, the group broke up.

Max removed the artifact from its box and slipped it into a pocket of his jacket. "You're keeping it?" said Michael.

Max had not expected a challenge on that front. "I was the one who found it."

"You and Liz," Michael reminded him.

"I can ask her. If it's an issue."

"No, no." Michael threw up his hands. "Whatever you say, Maximilian."

Max sighed. "Why do you do that?"

Michael stopped on his way toward the kitchen. "Do what?"

"The file extensions. Maximilian. Maxwell. The name's Max. Plain and simple Max."

"Didn't know it bothered you." He disappeared through the staff door.

"Of course he does," Max muttered, "otherwise he wouldn't do it. Make it sound like I'm letting on to be more than I am. Like I think I'm better than he is. Oh, he knows what he's doing, all right. You can bank on it."

Liz, who was the only one left to listen, nodded slowly. "And the mature way to confront the problem is to work yourself into a state over it." This fetched a grudging smile, which she answered with a willing one. Then she reverted to the former topic of conversation. "So what are you going to do with that thing?"

Max picked up the empty shoebox and turned it over and over, as if searching for instructions. "Isn't that what we were all in disagreement about?"

"Not _all_—" Suddenly her eyes grew big. "Oh, my God!" She felt like yelling, but managed to keep her voice down to a whisper. Inside his jacket pocket, and filtering out through the cotton shell, a blue light shone. "Max, look!"

"What?"

He looked but saw nothing. It had disappeared even before Liz had finished speaking. "Must be seeing things," she murmured. But she knew she was not prone to that.

Looking up, she saw something else, which was certainly not imaginary: her father had just entered by the main doors. She fleetingly wondered whether this was connected to the phenomenon she had just observed (if she had observed it), but the thought was wiped out by her more pressing concern; Jeff was glaring back at the two of them, and Liz knew why.

"I'm not supposed to be talking to you," she whispered to Max. This had been a condition of her grounding. She grabbed a rag from the sideboard and applied it to an imaginary spill on the table. Max slumped down in his seat and retracted his head into his jacket, turtle-like.

But the camouflage came too late; Jeff had seen them. "Have you been hanging out with this boy the whole time I was gone?" he asked as he walked up.

"He's a customer too," his daughter said innocently.

"And the kid who got you grounded—which you still are, in case you've forgotten."

"Not likely," came the muttered reply.

Jeff ignored it. "Time to start closing up," he said. A second later he disappeared and the staff door swung to behind him. Liz knew from experience that he did not mean for her to evacuate the place immediately but to begin the preparations for locking up, which would take her almost until 8.

Michael and Maria had been auditing the conversation from opposite sides of the order window. "Glad he's not my dad," Maria whispered.

"Me too," said Michael, but he sounded a little wistful, as Maria had also. He returned to scraping the grill. "'course, your mom is practically your dad," he added.

"Hey, you think that was her choice?"

"Easy! Her and me are buddies now, remember?"

Crossing in back of Max as she shuttled a tray of glasses from one sideboard to the other, Liz bent near to his ear. "Don't look now," she murmured, "but you're being watched."

She flicked her eyes toward a customer at a table on the other side of the room. Glancing over, Max recognized a former regular from his own place of employment, the UFO Center, who had made trouble for the two of them in the past, and now looked as if he might be working himself up to do it again. He was staring fixedly at Max through thick glasses beneath a mop of unruly hair. "Thought that guy left town," said Max.

"He's back now."

"We better start hanging out at the park." Max had been of that mind for some time anyway.

"Why there?"

"Not as public."

Liz began to laugh, and then saw by his face that he was not joking. Very solemn he could be, when he was not being airy. But then so could she; they were a good match that way.

He was still on her mind later as she made her journal entry, into which a little of the evening's conversation found its way. She bethought her also of her best friend, not grounded, and free to hang out with her boyfriend; she was no doubt at his place at that very moment. Liz sighed in envy.

But tonight Maria wished she had not come. She was sitting in a corner deprived of tv or radio while Michael concentrated on the map in front of him. The gooseneck lamp beside it on the coffee table cast the only light in the apartment. Dim as this was, she could make out the yellow gemstones which formed roughly a V on top of the map. They were artifacts also, from the same place as the first—a place far beyond Roswell; Michael had set them over the larger map symbols as aids to concentration. The rows of smaller symbols between, Maria could not see from her chair, but she remembered that they looked like words from an alien alphabet, probably describing the sites under the stones.

There were five stones, five sites, and five symbols for the sites: a spot enclosed in parentheses, a set of concentric circles and half circles that might describe a solar system, a pair of diagonal lines with extensions like whipcords, a row of boxes (almost) with a spot inside each, and the same spiral Maria and the others had seen on the artifact. In addition, there was a sixth symbol outside the V: a pair of crisscrossing lines with a box at each end and a half circle in each box.

The map was an accurate replica of the one they had seen in the cave on the Mesaliko reservation southwest of town. They had been led there by an old Apache called River Dog; he it was who had given them the stones. But it was Michael who had discovered recesses in the wall, and known to fit the stones into them so that they radiated a luminescent glow by which the symbols had been revealed plainly. He had seen in a vision that they represented not only one set of locations but two, in the identical configuration: one in the sky, the other on the earth, in and around Roswell—but where were those earthly sites? He had borrowed Max's replica map to study in hopes of figuring it out.

"This is tougher than I thought," he said, half glancing at his guest. "Maybe that thing Liz and Max found can help translate." That was one reason he had hoped to be its keeper, instead of Max. He pointed to the spot in parentheses. "This symbol's definitely the library. Thought I knew what the others were too, but once I started looking, come to find I didn't. Like when you've had a dream and you think you remember it, but when you try to tell somebody, it's gone."

_And maybe sometimes you should let it go_, Maria thought. But she would not say so, would not burst his bubble. She walked up behind him and rested her hands on his shoulders. "They must have something in common, something unique, don't you think? Why else would they have been singled out?"

Michael had no insight to offer. The identification of the library had come to him unbidden, as had most of the facts he had acquired in his life, but when he tried to extrapolate others, as he had been trying for the past hour, the effort hurt his head and he soon gave it up. "Wonder if one of them's the trailer park?" he mused. If the map was limited to Roswell and the top equated to north, he figured the park would be situated near the spiral.

Maria felt all at sea, not for the first time (or the last) in their discussions. "Why would it be?"

Michael smiled wryly; it had been a private joke. All his jokes were private ones, but Maria could usually recognize them, if not understand them. "You're right," he said. "That's one place that wasn't written in the stars." This signaled the end of his mental exertions for the evening. He reached for her hand and pulled her down toward him until she was close enough to kiss, though her lips were upside-down to his, and for the next hour, her small silken surrenders pushed away his memories of the place where he had grown up.

After she had left they returned, as they always did. He sat awake in the corner armchair remembering his ten years of captivity in the dingy white trailer with the short thick-set man who had brought and held him there. He had hated it as much as it was possible to hate any place. And still he yearned to see it again.

"Old Chisholm Trail Trailer Park," read the sign. The posts supporting it were half rotted; Michael was always surprised to find them still standing. In the early morning haze the dust lay where it had settled the night before. A rooster crowed; a dog barked; there were no signs of higher life. The "home" that had been Hank's was obviously unoccupied: no vehicles were parked out front. But it was wearing a shiny new coat of yellow paint.

Michael tried the door and found it unlocked. The inside smelled of disinfectant. He had advanced as far as the hall when he heard the screen door creak open behind him. "Who's in there?" a voice growled; one human was stirring, at least.

Michael turned to see a broad, mustached face he had known since childhood. "Easy, Borry. It's just me."

"Mike?"

"Who else?"

Boris Nazarian stepped inside. He had the reserved and suspicious air of a private security guard—which he had been before he bought the park to see him through his retirement. "What you doin' here, Mike? Your old man's long gone."

"Had to visit the old homestead one last time. You know how that is."

"No, not really. Not the way Hank treated you. I shoulda reported him to the sheriff, but you—"

"Wouldn't have changed anything, would it? Except make him madder—and I woulda caught most of the mad."

"You were bigger than him. He was more scared of you than the other way around. Why didn't you haul off and let him have it?"

"Only one place that road leads. And that's a place I don't ever want to see again."

"Again?"

Michael let the question slide. "Things turned out okay, once I escaped from here." He added, after a pause, "No offense meant."

"Then why are you back? Why would anybody come back?"

Michael stared toward the sanitized living room and saw past it to what it had looked like in his day. "If I tell you, you'll think I'm crazy."

"Will I?" Boris leaned against the wood paneling, causing it to creak alarmingly. "Never told you this, Mike. I had an old man whaled on me too. Hadda join the Navy to get away from him—and get me some cojones. After I was through training, I called him and told him when I come home I was gonna beat the bejesus out of him. Not on my first leave, or my second. I wanted to make the bastard sweat. But come my third..." He sighed. "I come home like I promised."

"And then you pounded on him?"

"I was gonna. But you know what? He said, go ahead, it'd be a mercy. He was dyin'. Son of a bitch. I couldn't whale on a guy who's dyin'." He shook his head. "I was there at the end, and I felt for him, you know, the way you would for anybody. But I couldn't forgive him. Never will. But—"

"You still miss him?"

Boris took this as a challenge. "Yeah, what of it?"

"It's crazy! A guy who abused you, and kept on abusing you. Why would you miss him? Why?"

Boris knew Michael was not only talking about him. "'cause they was all we had, Mike. Back when we needed somebody. And you wanna know the punchline? Now we ain't even got them." He stepped up to his former tenant and laid a hand on his shoulder. "You don't wanna be here, Mike. There's nothin' for you here." But Michael had known that before coming.

He did not speak on the way to school the next morning. But he was not silent either. He was bumming a ride in the Evans Jeep as usual; today Max was driving. In back, Isabel was giving thanks for the seat backs that divided her from Michael and damped the sound of his voice as he sang along with the radio:

"Teen-a-gers from out-er space

Well, we're just teen-a-gers from out-er space

I say, teen-a-gers from out-er space

With this place

On our case..."

"_Must_ you do that?" he heard from the back seat. Max switched the radio off without touching the knob. "At last," said his sister, over Michael's protest. "Peace in our time."

Max turned to Michael. "I need to ask you something anyway." He reached into his jacket.

"Hope that's nothing illegal you're carrying." Michael nodded over to their left, where a beige Range Rover with an official insignia on the door was cruising alongside them at the same speed. Max took his hand away from his jacket. The driver gave him a nod, which he returned nervously. _Damn that Valenti_, he thought.

After two blocks, the sheriff turned off, but by that time they had reached the school. "I'll have to ask you later," said Max.

Their human allies had arrived a few minutes earlier and were waiting at their usual gathering spot by the big school sign at the top of the steps. "Oh, my God," said Maria, and then quickly covered her mouth.

"What?" said Liz, looking in the direction of the couple that had just passed by.

Her friend moved to block her view. "Nothing! Less than nothing. A sub-factoid in the sub-nothing universe." But Liz had already seen: the sheriff's son had been arm in arm with a girl who was not one of Liz's favorites, and had cast her in passing what might have been interpreted as a smirk. "Sorry," said Maria.

"You mean Kyle's being with Pam Troy? Yeah, I'd heard that." She continued staring after them. "But this is the first time I've actually seen them."

"You _are_ over him, correct? I mean, you are with Max now."

"Maria, there was nothing to be over! It's just—I don't understand what he sees in her, that's all. I mean, even Kyle has standards."

"Well," Alex offered hesitantly, "you have to admit she's very—" The two girls flashed him identical cold looks. "Okay," he conceded. "After all, what do I know? I'm just a sophomore."

"Junior," Liz corrected him. "This is our junior year."

"I do that a lot, don't I?"

"All last year," said Maria. "You kept telling people we were still freshmen. Very diminishing." Her voice faded with the last words, and Alex saw she was no longer looking at him. Michael and the Evanses had appeared at the foot of the steps.

"Who's that watching us?" asked Isabel.

The two boys followed her eye to a window of the gym building. "Coach Clay," Michael replied, waving to the figure standing there. Clay—if it was he—turned away without acknowledging him.

"Warm guy," Max observed.

"He's a coach. He's supposed to be tough."

"Friday he gave me ten laps. For nothing!"

"Uh-huh. What was nothing?"

"Talking during roll call."

"It's against the rules. You knew that when you did it."

"When did you suddenly become his champion, Michael? He hasn't spared you, that I recall."

"That's his job. Making us into men."

"Which, given your biological profiles—" Isabel began.

"If you're too much of a wuss to take it—" Michael continued.

"Who's a wuss?"

He gave Michael a shove, and Michael was prepared to return the favor with interest when Isabel stepped between them. "Boys, boys! None of that in _my_ saloon."

The quarrel had gone farther than Michael had intended; now he took a step back, both figuratively and literally. "I'm just saying you got no call to dump on him," he offered. "That's all I'm saying."

Max had a sudden insight, or what he believed to be one. "Michael, he's not your dad." Michael flashed him a glare, confirming his guess.

Then they reached the big sign and the three waiting by it. Below the school's name, writ large, stood forth its motto: "Pathway to Excellence and Integrity." Michael read it but gained no encouragement thereby. He felt neither excellent nor integrated; he felt alone, even in familiar company. Maria waited for him to show her some attention but got only a grunt, and could not even be sure it had been meant for her. She watched glumly as Liz and Max locked lips. Alex was watching them too—and then glanced tentatively at Isabel, the glint of a suggestion in his eyes. Isabel caught it but pretended not to.

Michael perceived a space between the six of them and the other students walking past. He was certain he was not imagining it; the others were steering clear of them, if not on purpose, then instinctively. Michael knew he was in the wrong place, in more ways than one. So were Max and Isabel, maybe—but at least they had a "home." Maria accosted him, in a bid for a hug. "Gotta go," he said abruptly. As he left, he threw another glare at Max identical to the one before; Max had had no call to say that about his father—but no, he had been talking about Clay.

"Wait!" Max called after him.

Maria sensed that he was somehow responsible for the quick departure. "What was that all about?"

Max did not hear her; he was too wrapped up in his own immediate concern. "I wanted to talk to him," he said, a little petulantly.

"Yeah," said Maria, staring at him, "me too. See you, Liz." She headed off, hugging her books disconsolately.

"Nice going, Max," remarked his sister; not for the first time, he found himself a target of blame without quite knowing why. Then she left too. "Alex," she said; it was almost a goodbye.

Alex was used to almosts from her. "Hey, Is?" he called. "What do you say later on we—" But Isabel did not look back. He accepted this at his lot; after all, she had almost said goodbye, and he did not want to be greedy. "Another time, then. That's fine. Perfectly fine." He nodded as if to convince himself. "You know," he said to Max, "your sister—"

"Yeah, isn't she?" The reply came automatically. After a moment Max realized Alex had probably had a different sentiment in mind.

The object of Alex's affection having removed herself, he had no further reason to stay, and with his exit Max and Liz were left to themselves. "Your turn," Max said dourly. "Have at me."

"Max! Right here on the steps?" The mischievousness of her answer caught him by surprise (she was able to do that sometimes). He smiled a little.

Michael's dark mood followed him into first-period P.E., but he trusted to the coach to knock him out of it. Light fell from the arching windows onto him and the other boys as they lined up along the length of the basketball gym and Clay paced down the line, clipboard in hand. "Fenton," he called. "Franzese. Garfield. Gomez. Gottlieb. Guerin." He glanced at Michael's sweatshirt. "Not regulation, Guerin." Standard issue was blue with gold lettering.

"Sorry, I tore the—"

"No excuses!" He lifted the ballpoint that was chained to the clipboard and made a check by Michael's name. "Grey mark for today."

"But, Coach—"

"No back talk! Or you'll get a second one." And he proceeded down the line.

Michael did not mind the grey mark; he knew he had earned it and he had protested mainly out of a regard for form. But the coach had spoken to him so coldly! As if he had never shown an interest in Michael's well-being, as if he had never offered advice on how to handle his foster father... But now it seemed as if that was all in the past.

A few minutes into the period, after the boys had chosen up sides, Michael noticed one of his shoelaces dangling, and had stepped to the sidelines to repair it when Clay descended on him. "Guerin! What do you think you're doing?" The other boys postponed their play to listen.

Michael stood up to face the coach head on. "I'm tying my—"

"You're slacking! I don't allow slackers on my court." Clay lifted his ballpoint. "Another grey mark."

"I was tying my shoes!" He pointed down. "See? Left, right. Like Mister Rogers."

"You trying to be a smart-ass, Guerin?"

Michael resorted to the age-old defense of young people unjustly accused. "But I didn't _do_ anything!"

"Yeah, you did. Know what it was? You got born—if that's the right word for it." Michael flinched; what had Clay meant by that? "You know something, Guerin? I don't like you. I never have. Don't like your mouth—don't like your attitude—don't like your face. What do you say to that?"

Michael did not know what to say. Clay always imposed strict discipline on the boys, but always impartially, impersonally. And he had never once demeaned them; Michael had believed it was not in his character. "I thought—" he began.

"You thought what?"

"Forget it." He started out onto the court.

"Don't walk away when I'm talking to you!"

Michael stopped. "Still here. So?"

Clay took a step closer. "Got no father, have you?"

"You know I don't."

Clay stepped closer still. "Boy without a father's got nobody to show him how to be a man. He'll never be anything but a girl. That's what you are, Guerin. A pretty little girl. Aren't you? Aren't you?" Michael felt like smacking him but swallowed the impulse and kept his cool. Then Clay smacked him—on the shoulder, and hard.

"Don't touch me!" Michael warned.

"What's the matter? Little Miss Guerin doesn't like big bad man touching her?" He doled out another smack.

"Do that once more and I'll—"

"You'll do what?"

"Report you," Michael finished weakly.

"Report me. Just like a girl." Clay drew his hands back. "Okay, _Miss_ Guerin. No touchy feely." He picked up a basketball from the floor. "Report this—maggot." Spinning on his heel, he hurled the ball at Michael, hard. Michael batted it off with his forearm. Clay retrieved it and hurled it again. This time Michael caught it in both hands and flung it away, high into the bleachers.

"Stop it!" he pleaded.

"Stop it!" Clay mimicked him.

"I mean it!"

"I mean it!"

The ball had rolled back to him somehow. He took it up and began dribbling it, pacing out a circle around Michael. "The other guys know, don't they? Know you're not one of them. That's why they stare at you—why they talk about you behind your back. It's why your girlfriend won't give you _squat._"

He hurled the ball again, this time at Michael's head, and so fast that Michael had no time to dodge or think how to defend himself. So he did the only thing he knew to do: a foot from his face, the ball turned into a red balloon, but only for a second, before it exploded with a pop. Now a limp wad of plastic, it dropped to the floor, where it regained its original leather shell.

Only Clay had been close enough to see the transformation. But he did not seem surprised by it. "Destroying school property," he said. "Another grey mark, Guerin. That makes three strikes. Know what the penalty for that is? Life, with no possibility of parole." Michael could not help reflecting that this would describe his entire experience on Earth; Clay's bullying was just one example.

And what could he do about it? His pride would not let him just stand there and take it, but he could not fight back without revealing himself (and maybe the others along with him). The only action he could take was to take no action, to back away. He had done so times enough before, with Hank, but he had not expected the coach to put him in the same strait jacket. Hurt and confused, powerless to understand or to act, he did the only thing left to him: he ran away, back to his locker, while the other boys watched, every one wondering if he would be Clay's next target. Those closest to him saw him smile after Michael with satisfaction. It was as if he had planned it that way.

Michael was still trying to make sense of the whole incident when he returned to his locker at break time. He found Maria waiting there. She moved to kiss him; he shook her off as he had earlier. "Not in the mood." She tried again more forcefully. "I said no, I meant no!" Max and Liz walked up to find them facing away from each other, with scowls on both their faces.

Liz moved to Maria. "You okay?"

"Ask Doctor No."

"Something wrong, Michael?" Max asked. And then again, "Michael?"

The answer came reluctantly, for a variety of reasons. "The coach. He was being a real sadist this morning."

"This comes as a shock."

"Okay, okay, you were right about him. But this was just weird. He kept throwing the ball at me and wouldn't stop."

Maria saw that his feelings had been hurt more than he wanted to reveal. "Sorry, I didn't realize." She gave his side a squeeze, which this time he permitted. She looked at Max. "Shouldn't you or Isabel have sensed the problem? I thought whenever one of you gets hurt—"

"Only in extreme cases. And with Michael, there's not a lot to sense. He likes to bite the bullet. True grit."

"Yeah, tell me about it."

Michael was not amused by this exchange but let it pass. "What did you do?" Max asked. "When Clay went after you?"

"What I had to." The others waited. "Rang the changes." He added, before anyone could object, "He didn't leave me any choice!"

"You think he saw you?"

"I don't know. If he did, he didn't say anything. Like I said, it was weird."

"Sounds like he was baiting you on purpose."

Liz sighed. "Yes, Max, we _get_ that. The question is why."

"Is there any doubt?" said Maria. The others turned to her. "He tricked you into exposing yourself—and not in the way you all are thinking. Does this remind you of anybody?" They looked blank. "Ms. Topolsky? Careers day?"

"FBI!" said Liz.

"Yes, Liz, we _get_ that," Max said pointedly, earning a scowl from her. "That's why he's been posing as your mentor, Michael. It wasn't that he really liked you."

"Oh, of course not. Because that would be totally outside the realm of possibility, right?"

"I didn't mean that."

"Yeah, you did. But it's okay." He said the next words so quietly the others could hardly hear them. "I know better now."

"What'll you do if he goes for you again?" Max asked.

"Eat it. What else, assassinate him?"

Max appeared to consider the idea carefully, but in the end he shook his head. "Draw too much attention to ourselves."

"Which disposes of the _ethical_ dilemma," Liz observed. Max shrugged; she did not pursue the point, but made a note to have a serious talk with him later. "English is in the library today," she reminded him. "You coming?"

"I have to talk to Michael first." This clearly came as news to Michael. Liz went off alone, and Max pointed him toward the rest room. "In there."

"And _this_ isn't weird," said Maria.

"Stand watch out here," Max ordered her.

"I have class!"

"So do we. Don't worry, you'll get there on time, or almost." He ushered Michael inside. "Remember," he said to Maria, "don't let anybody in till we're done."

"How do I stop somebody from taking a leak?"

"Use your imagination."

"It's an area I'd rather not focus my imagination on, thanks all the same. And may I point out that legally—" But by then Max had gone, having shown no sign of hearing her. With reluctance she took up her post at the door.

Two people who passed gave her funny looks, as she had feared; she improvised an explanation. "My boyfriend's in there," she said, "doing his business. I want to be sure I don't miss him coming out. I've lost too many that way." This did not seem to help; if anything, it elicited looks that were even funnier. Any subsequent attention she garnered from passers-by, she ignored without comment.

Inside, Michael waited impatiently while Max checked the stalls to make sure they were unoccupied. "So what's the big deal?" Michael asked.

Max reached into his jacket and pulled out the artifact. "My mom nearly found this when she made my bed yesterday."

"Your mom makes your bed?"

"It's a thing moms do." He extended it to Michael. "I want you to keep it for a while."

"_Now_ you say that."

"You live on your own. It's safer with you." Then he remembered the exception. "So long as you don't mention it to Maria."

"Why?"

"Because—Maria." Michael needed no more explanation than that. He took the object Max offered. "Handle it gently," Max warned, and Michael did. "For all we know, it might be a nuclear detonator." Michael stared at it as though with new eyes. "Probably not," Max admitted. "But it doesn't come with a manual. So we should be careful till we can find out more about it."

Michael was rotating the object slowly so as to study it on all sides. "Yeah, that's a plan."

"What is?"

"What you said."

While Max tried to recall any statement of his that could be described as a plan, a boy whose name Maria had never been certain of was trying to maneuver around her into the lavatory, with no success. "You can't go in there," she stated flatly. "—Roy, isn't it?"

"Ray. But this is urgent!"

"Roy—"

"Ray."

"I know how you feel, believe me, I do. When you're sitting waiting for the bell and your entire being is consumed with the strain of holding in a bladderload—" She noticed that Roy, or Ray, was evincing more interest in the picture she was painting than she thought desirable. "Okay, enough sharing," she said. "You'll have to wait."

"Why?"

"Because the rest room's flooded. Water an inch deep. Whew." _I have never heard anybody use that word before_, she reflected, _and I will probably never use it again._

"How come there's no sign?" Ray asked.

"They ran out of signs and put me here instead."

He looked at her crookedly. "That doesn't sound very believable."

"No, you know, it doesn't, and that's because—it's a lie. The fact is, there's a—transaction going on in there."

"What kind of transaction?"

"Highly personal.."

"I want to see for myself!"

At that moment Max and Michael emerged together. "On second thought..." Ray emended. He hurried past them and inside.

"What were you doing in there all that time?" said Maria—and then, immediately, "I can't believe I just asked that."

"See you later," said Max. He was really speaking to Michael, but out of politeness he pretended to include Maria.

When he had left, she turned to Michael. "What's up with Max?"

Michael shook his head. "He said not to tell you."

"Uh-huh, so?"

Michael heaved a sigh; he should have known he could not hold out. "He gave me this to hang onto," he said, taking the artifact from his jacket. Just as he did so, Ray came out the door behind him in time to get a glimpse. His eyes went wide, and Michael quickly returned the artifact to his pocket. Ray dropped his eyes again and hurried off up the hall. "Suavé," said Maria, in two syllables. "Now he'll think it's a gun."

"So let him. Who cares?"

"What if he reports it to Principal Wiley?"

"I'll show Wiley it isn't."

"What will you say it is?"

"Nerf football?" He slid the object out an inch or two.

"Right, like he's gonna believe—" Then she saw for herself. "Oh-h, _yeah._"

A thought from a few minutes earlier floated to the front of her brain: wasn't she supposed to be somewhere? Then she remembered. "Oh, my God, I'm late for class!" The hall was almost empty now; a boy sprinted past them. She started off.

Michael was late too, but seemed less perturbed about it. "See you at lunch," he said, "under the bleachers." And she knew just where. But not why.

At two minutes past noon, she was following Michael back They arranged to meet in the stadium at lunchtime. Two minutes later, he was leading her down to the chain link fence behind the football stadium. The fence separated the campus from the golden brown hills to the north. "Then don't come," Michael said, looking over his shoulder, in answer to the various protests she had raised. "Same difference to me either way."

"It can't wait till after school?"

"It can. _I_ can't." He lifted his hand up to the fence. The section before him faded from grey to white, and crumbled to powder as he passed through. On a hunch, Maria swiped the edge of the aperture with her finger and tasted what clung to it. The powder was what it looked like: sugar. Michael was now several yards ahead of her. She slipped through after him.

The two of them climbed a hill, and then another, and came to a halt on the far side of the second. They were within hearing of the loudest sounds from campus, if either listened hard, but these did not interfere with Michael's concentration. While the thing was in his possession, he wanted to test it in every way he could imagine. The first, most obvious test to try was to find out if he could use it. His intuition, as well as his common sense, told him it was intended to be used. But by what means, and to what end, they did not disclose.

He and Maria were on a flat with hills fore and aft. Michael walked to the far end and swung about like a movie gunslinger, holding the artifact at his hip. From the side, where she was sitting cross-legged, Maria watched with amusement. "¡Oye, vaquero!" she cheered. Michael drew his weapon from its imaginary holster and aimed it at the hill behind them, telling it—_willing_ it—to bore a hole through to the other side. He did not know if that was the kind of thing it could do; it seemed as likely as any. But no matter how hard he tried, it made no difference: the hill remained intact.

Maria was watching with her chin on her fists. "What are you trying to do exactly?" she shouted.

"Drill a hole in the hill."

"Uh, excuse me, why?"

"Some other program you'd rather watch?"

She realized she had not made herself clear. "But that isn't what you do, is it? Your thing's more, like, chemical engineering."

"Not at all," he replied, in a patronizing tone that made her want to step on his foot. "What we do is transform the molecular struct—" He stopped. "Chemical engineering. That's what it is."

"The Nerf ball's probably a tool to help do that." Michael stared at her; how obvious now that she had said it. "I do make sense once in a while," she observed drily. "Hard to believe, I know."

Michael was too busy to answer. He was doing a repeat of the previous experiment, this time with a new object: changing the dirt of the hill to salt. Again he concentrated with all his might, striving, straining...

And again he failed. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. Ringing the changes took a lot out of a guy—especially when he was standing out under the noonday sun in southern New Mexico.

Then he got a new idea. This one took him back to the school, to the metal shop, which was housed together with the wood and auto shops at one end of the physical sciences building. The door was locked. Michael passed his hand over the lock, and the door popped open. His companion glanced around nervously. No one was close by, but she was sure that at any minute a teacher would appear around a corner. "You realize this constitutes breaking and entering?" she said.

"What'd I break?"

"Okay, entering." And he did enter, in spite of Maria's disapproval. She wanted to leave him to his fate, but it was too late for that, by several months. So she scurried in after him.

The shop was a big high-windowed room containing masses of machinery for drilling, soldering, brazing, arc welding—every basic job in metal working that could be taught. To Maria the place summed up all the least attractive characteristics of the male sex. But to Michael, today, it was a gold mine.

First he tried the drill. Maria covered her ears to shut out the shrill whir. She had not guessed what he had had in mind to do; it seemed imprudent even for him. "Is this really such a good idea?" she shouted.

Michael shut the drill off and examined the artifact. It was unblemished. "I'll be damned," he said. "It's so dense nothing penetrates."

"What am I reminded of?"

"Ha ha."

Next he took down a welding torch. "And I ask again..." Maria remarked.

But again her worries were unnecessary. The torch had no more effect than the drill had. Michael then stuck the object under a vertical press, with the same result, or lack of result; it could not be punctured, burned, flattened, dented, scratched, or otherwise marred. Even more strangely, it did not react to the attacks by beeping or glowing, as it had done when Max and Liz had first found it; for Michael, it would not perform at all.

"Now what?" Maria asked.

Before Michael could make up his mind, a figure stepped out from the shadow of a wall. "Coach!" Michael exclaimed. How he had gotten in, neither could fathom, since no one had been there when they entered and no one had entered after them.

"What are you kids doing here?" He did not wait for an answer; just as well, since they did not have one. "Guerin, what are you hiding behind your back?"

"Nothing."

"Show me." Michael tried to devise a way to avoid doing so, but had not time or freedom to think of one. "Show me!" Clay repeated. So Michael showed him.

Clay's eyes registered recognition. "Give it to me."

"It's not—not mine," Michael stammered.

Maria had the cooler head. "It's mine," she said, grabbing it away from him. "It's a—beeper. Reminding me to take my medication."

Clay was looking skeptical. "What are you on medication for?"

"For stressful situations. Like this." The bell rang. "Proverbial," Maria commented. "Michael—_walkies!_" She pushed him toward and out the door.

However, no sooner had they turned into the central hall than two boys stepped out into their path, as if they had been watching for them. Michael knew them from P.E. class, but did not remember having ever spoken to them. He remembered their names: Rick and Scott.

"Hey, you," said Rick. Michael started to return the greeting. "—freak," Rick added. For a second Michael's face showed a flicker of what might have been disappointment. Then it settled into a solemnity of resignation Maria had seen before. He straightened up, squared his shoulders, and waited.

"Ignore him," said Maria, hopefully. She began to steer Michael around the other two, but they moved to block her.

"And so much for plan A," said Michael. He faced Rick eye to eye. "You want something from me, jerk?"

"Not from you." He looked to Maria with a smirk. "Olla, mamacita. What you doing hanging out with this loser?"

"You can do better than him," said his friend. "You're not a total dog." The two began to close in on her.

"Lay a hand on me and you're dead men."

"Come on, chica," Rick begged. "Give us a sample of what the freak's getting." He outstretched a hand.

—only to have it grabbed up by Michael. "Man," he said, "you are worse than dead." He ran his eyes up the arm. Frost began to appear on the skin where it showed. Rick yelped in pain. "You like that?" Michael demanded. "Do you—_chica?_"

"Let me go! Please!"

"Michael, don't!" Maria clutched at his shoulder, trying to pull him away—not as much for Rick's good as for Michael's own. What he might do if he let himself go—what he might be seen to do—was anybody's guess; it might be murder, or worse, and it might be the end of him too.

Scott was becoming panicky. "Listen, it wasn't our idea. It was coach!"

"Coach?" Michael paused to hear more.

"Coach Clay. He told us to pick a fight with you so you'd get in trouble. It's the truth, I swear!"

Michael bent close to Rick. "What about that?"

"Coach," Rick gasped out. Michael thought about it for a second or two, and then let go of the arm.

Rick began patting and squeezing it. "I can't feel anything!"

Michael shrugged. "It'll pass. With luck."

Scott was shrinking back from him. "What'd you do to him?" he asked.

Gratifying as their subjugation was for Maria to witness, it only aggravated her fear of public notice. She did some more fast thinking. "Tai chi," she said. "Along with some feng shui and jet li. He's mastered them all."

The boys seemed to accept this, or at any rate did not seem inclined to argue. The confrontation was over, and Maria was feeling optimistic that it would be forgotten in a few days, when out bellowed a voice that made her jump. "What exactly is going on here?" Principal Wiley was standing outside his office door. He pointed a finger at Michael. "You, in here."

"But, Mr. Wiley—" Maria began.

"You too, miss," he said. "Since you're so eager to have a word."

—and from the moment of her sitting down, Maria found herself playing paralegal on Michael's behalf, answering the principal's questions because he would not, and angry at them both for it.

"Why did you start that fight?" Wiley asked Michael, for the third time.

"I told you before," said Maria, "it wasn't—"

"And I told you to keep your nose out of it."

"How come you didn't call the others in here? Why only Michael?"

"Because their files"—he tapped a manila folder lying on the desk—"don't show a record of infractions dating back to their freshman year." He wagged a finger at Michael. "You realize this incident is all the justification I need to have you suspended permanently?"

"That isn't fair!" This was Maria answering again.

"However," Wiley added, "as a believer in equal opportunity I'm offering you one last chance to mount a defense. Starting now."

And at last Michael spoke. But his answer was like nothing Wiley had expected. "Demand me nothing. What you know, you know. From this time forth, I never will speak word."

Wiley ran it through his mental mill a second time to be sure he had not missed something. "What am I supposed to make of that?"

"It's Shakespeare."

"Shakespeare! You're a great proponent of the Bard, are you?"

Michael sighed. He had been right to begin with: there was no point in letting himself be drawn in. He had made that mistake out in the hall, and see where it had gotten him.

"Oh, yes," Wiley continued snidely, "I can see from your academic performance what a reader you are."

"Actually he reads a lot," said Maria, perhaps unwisely. "_Off_ the syllabus. The things he likes, he can quote back word for word."

"Can he?" Wiley's tone was skeptical.

At Maria's urging, and only then, did Michael demonstrate. "Thou told me thou didst hold him in thy hate," he began. "Despise me if I do not—"

"Aw, that's a load of crap."

"Now _Othello_'s crap."

"Tell me something in words I can understand!" Michael could not help chuckling at this. "Well?" said Wiley. Michael thought immediately of several figures of speech that would meet the requirement, but their use would certainly make his own position worse. "Why do I make the effort?" Wiley sighed. "Your kind always dig your own graves. Strictly trailer-made."

Maria was surprised at the blatancy of the insult. She saw Michael stiffen in his chair. "What was that?" he asked.

"Easy, babe," she murmured. She lay a hand on his arm.

Wiley had opened a drawer of his desk, taken out a form, and now began filling it out. Maria knew what it was. "You're not kicking him out of school for this?"

"You'd rather I wait for the next session of the fight club?"

"He was defending me!" she protested. Then she felt obliged to add, for the sake of her own pride, "Not that I required defending, mind you. Because—"

Her ingratitude, as Michael heard it, provoked him out of his silence. "You think you could have handled them?" he said. "Fine, next time I'll let 'em lay on, Macduff." He glanced at Wiley. "Which is also Shakespeare, incidentally."

Wiley stopped writing and looked up with a changed expression on his face. "Hold on now. Are you claiming those boys were making unwelcome advances toward you?"

_Duh_, thought Maria. "Michael stopped it before it got started—which, at the time, I admit I appreciated." She decided she owed him that much. "They weren't mounting a—well, weren't mounting, period." Wiley pursed his lips. "They were just trying to piss Michael off. And succeeded, obviously."

"Why would they want to do that?"

"It wasn't their idea. They—" Michael gave her a split-second shake of the head.

Wiley had not seen it. He waited. "Yes?"

"The devil made them do it," Maria finished weakly.

"The devil. I see." Wiley assumed she was too much embarrassed to discuss the incident, and so he let it pass. "But there's still this matter of sneaking off campus. And not for the first time either." He tapped the folder on the desk.

"I did the same thing!" said Maria. "I'm as guilty as he is."

"It's obvious to me you were induced to accompany him, if not by force, then verbal persuasion."

"Oh, yeah, his silver-tongued charm. A quality he's known widely for." Michael shot her a dirty look.

Wiley ignored her sarcasm. He scrutinized first one and then the other of them. "What need was it, I wonder, that drove you beyond the campus confines? A craving for some controlled substance perhaps?" His look lingered on Maria. "One of those herbal remedies of yours?" Her jaw dropped. "Oh, I know all about them from the sheriff."

"Mr. Wiley, I swear to you—"

"Enough. This is Mr. Guerin's hour of judgment, not yours. Just remember, I have my eye on you too."

"Eye," Maria repeated, "noted."

"Well," said Wiley, with an air of finality, "in view of what appear to have been extenuating circumstances, I'm willing to ignore today's roughhouse." He tore the suspension form in half and dropped it into his wastebasket. "But for playing hooky" (Maria and Michael had not heard that word since grade school, and mouthed it at each other in disbelief) "Mr. Guerin has earned himself a detention this Saturday."

"I've got work," Michael objected, truthfully.

"Not this Saturday you don't," Wiley snapped back. "Report to the gym at 8 sharp."

"The gym?"

"The gym. By a strange fluke of poetic justice, the teacher assigned that morning is the same one who reported you as AWOL this afternoon—_and_ called my attention to the fight in the hall."

"And that teacher would be?" asked Maria, guessing in advance what the answer would be.

And it was. "Coach Clay." The reaction she saw written on Michael's face approximated her own. She was anxious to compare notes, but restrained herself until Wiley dismissed them and they were well out of his hearing.

"Now we know his plan," she announced. "To have you to himself without witnesses."

"Don't blow it all out of proportion," said Michael. But she could see she was not the only uneasy one.

Then she remembered something he had done earlier, or omitted to do, that had been bothering her. "Why didn't you tell Wiley those two guys were playing for Clay?"

"Would he believe me over a teacher?"

"They'd have backed you up."

"And come down on Clay's wrong side? I don't think so. One thing I've learned about you humans—give you an excuse to wiggle out of dong the right thing, you'll take it. Every time."

"Well, thanks for the compliment." It might be true, but he did not have to say so.

"Nah, I don't mean you," Michael said, and Maria felt better—for a moment. "That is, not especially. You're not as bad as some."

"No? Then how bad am I?" Michael answered with a back-and-forth tilt of the hand—sign language for "so-so." This elicited from Maria an open-mouthed recoil of a type which by Michael's observation was unique to teen girls: an expression which conveyed that the indignity or inequity under which they were laboring so far exceeded anything anyone else had ever undergone that language would not serve to express their disbelief.

Michael did not get what the big deal was. "You wanted the truth, didn't you?" he asked—in respect of which Maria, infinitely offended, turned on her heel and marched out of the building. Michael did not have time to go after her then; she might have the day off, but he did not, and he was already late for his shift.

Standing over the grill at the Crashdown, he reviewed all he had said to her, and he found no fault in it. He looked across at Liz, waiting on the outer side of the order window. He would have been the first to admit that it had taken him a great while to appreciate her merits, and since doing so he kept discovering new ones all the time. He smiled out at her. "You know, I never did thank you for getting me this job."

"You got it for yourself."

"Okay, then I take it back." Liz laughed. "You laugh. Maria'd get mad. She's weird that way." Liz did not reply; she had a feeling there was more to the story than he was telling. "You know, it should have been me and you together. Woulda made more sense."

Liz was unexpectedly touched. "That's extremely flattering of you, Michael, but I'm not sure—"

"You, I can understand," he said. "You're like books—you explain things. But Maria..."

"Oh, nobody understands Maria. Or Max," she added, for good measure. "It's just the way they are. Either you accept that, or..." _Or what?_ she wondered.

"Then why are we with them?" Michael asked, almost pleadingly. "Instead of each other?"

"Because in the first place we'd have to be in love, which we're not. And in the second place, if we were we'd be in the same boat we are now." Michael nodded in resignation. "You know what they say. Love's—the b-word."

"Bull—"

She smiled. "Not _that_ b-word. The other one. And you know it isn't."

"No," Michael agreed. "That'd be too easy." And he knew life was never easy.

Max would have agreed with Liz's diagnosis of inscrutability as it pertained to him. His behavior was often unfathomable even to himself, and on the occasions of his greatest puzzlement he would take long walks while he tried to work out why he had done as he had. Roswell's sidewalks were pleasant to wander, with their brick paving and their lines of trees, each encased in its own trimly curved iron fence. This evening he was heading for Summerhaven Park, where he had arranged with the other not-ofs to meet after dark but before curfew. The route he was taking was also his way home, that is, the way to the Evans house, which lay opposite the park.

He appeared not to notice the man who was following him, a stocky man with glasses and an unkempt mop of hair, or the woman with shorter hair and dark lipstick who was following the man in turn. "Larry, please!" she called after him. "Let's go back."

"I just want to talk to him, Jen. Just talk, that's all." He waved to Max. "Hey, man, wait up!" Max pretended not to hear, but this only caused Larry to accelerate to a trot, while Max maintained his customary slow canter, so that within a few seconds Larry was able to pass him and circle around in front of him, blocking his way. "Gotta talk to you," he said.

Max tried to slip past him. "Sorry, in a hurry."

Then Jen appeared. "Larry," she said Jen, with a tug at his shirt, "don't do this. Let's just go. Please."

Larry put his arm around her. "Meet Jen, the wife. We just got back from our honeymoon. In Las Vegas."

"Congratulations." Max felt he had to say that.

"Didn't do a lot of gambling while we were there. Mainly—well, mainly, we were on our honeymoon." He gave a snicker.

"Larry, he doesn't care about that."

"Oh, right, right." Larry returned to his point. "Listen, I hate to be a nudge, last thing in the world I want to do is annoy anybody, but I had to tell you I was wrong about you."

Max received this intelligence with uncertainty as to its import. "Were you?"

"Of course you know I was. I mean, you know you're not—what I thought you were. And now I know too. That's great, isn't it?"

"Great," Max agreed. "Listen, I—"

"What it was was, I had this thing about aliens. I used to see them everywhere—at work, at the market—"

"On tv?" Max suggested.

"That too. And I was sure you were one of them. Wasn't I, Jen?"

"Larry—"

"But she set me straight. There are no aliens out there. It was all up here." He pointed to his head. "You're a normal, red-blooded guy, just like me. The two of us are just alike."

Max smiled wanly. "That's reassuring, thanks."

"Just wanted to tell you."

"And now you have. See you around."

Max walked on. "You got nothing to fear from me!" Larry reiterated. Max kept walking. Jen started to pull Larry in the other direction. Then he stopped. "Shoot! Something I forgot."

"Larry, you said enough."

"But this is the most vital thing!" He turned around and took after Max again, and Jen had no choice but to follow.

A block ahead of them, Michael was also on his way to the park. His mind was so preoccupied with his upcoming detention that he was insensible to what was happening around him, including the activity of the small boy farther up the block, who was bouncing a ball and running after it to retrieve it when it had bounced too far. His slightly older sister was walking alongside and a little ahead, but she was paying him no attention either, so that when the ball bounced into the street and he darted out after it, the first his sister knew of it was when she looked up to see a Ford truck bearing down on him.

She screamed, and her scream brought Michael out of his funk. There was no time to pull the boy out and no time to weigh other options. He would have to ring a change, or do nothing. So he did the first thing that came to him: he changed the rubber of the truck's tires to chewing gum—that is, to the chemical compound popularly referred to as such; it was easiest to focus on when he thought of it by its common name. It had never been meant to be made into tires; they locked, and the truck skidded around in an arc, narrowly missing the boy. His sister ran out and swept him up onto the sidewalk. But now the truck was sliding sideways, toward one of the fenced trees. Seeing it, Michael panicked. His mind stalled; he could do nothing.

Luckily, however, Max was at hand. He had arrived just in time to see what was going on, and to know what to do. He changed both the tree and its fence to rubber, so that when the truck hit them they bent backwards harmlessly. The truck veered off and grated to a halt.

The driver was rattled, but basically unhurt. He climbed out to inspect the tires, then the tree, and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Max had changed it all back—except that the tree was now bowed in half. There were probably ways to correct this, but he would have had to think of one, which would have taken too long, and anyway, it was too late.

—because the boy had seen what had happened, and was now staring at him pop-eyed; his sister had not seen it, but he had. Max raised a finger to his lips and held it there. The boy nodded solemnly. Max knew kids, and knew that his secret was safe.

But there had been a second witness, halfway down the block. He turned to the woman with him. "Did you see that?" he said, in a tone of awe mingled with gloating. "Did you?"

Jen had not. "You mean the accident?"

"The alien! He changed things I was right about him all along!"

"Larry, we've been through this—"

"I know what I saw!"

"What you _think_ you saw."

"You're in it too! You're part of the conspiracy!" He gazed at her in horror. "And I'm _married_ to you!"

"That was my error. I thought you were someone I knew." And she walked away—away from him, away from the accident, away from it all. She had had it with this alien nonsense.

"Jen, wait!" Larry looked from her to the scene half a block up. He knew he had to make a choice, and he did, but reluctantly. "Jen!" he called. "Wait for me!" And he hurried after her.

By then other bystanders had begun to collect, and Michael had begun to wish his powers included invisibility. He heard a cat-like wail, and saw a familiar beige Rover pull in at the curb. The sheriff stepped out, surveying the crowd at the same time. He made a mental note of the tall kid who was hurrying off down the block. Max was standing farther back, and was able to slip away unobserved while Valenti was busy interviewing the driver of the truck.

The two boys and Isabel held their meeting, a little later than planned, while perched on one of the concrete benches at the rear of the park. From there they could survey the whole lawn by the clusters of spotlights on the steel poles that were planted along the gravel paths every few yards. Apart from themselves, the park was nearly empty.

Max had intended to further discuss the artifact, but the events immediately preceding dictated a change of topic. He apprised Isabel of all that had happened. "That was careless," she told Michael untactfully.

"Not to mention stupid," Max added.

Michael was already duly aware of his failure and did not try to minimize it. "I choked. Everything happened so fast."

"What about our pact?" asked Max. "The pact never to reveal ourselves?"

He was surprised to hear Isabel say, "Come on, Max. That ended when you brought Liz back from the dead. We're still dealing with the fallout from that."

"I should have let her die?" He looked from one to the other of them.

Michael shrugged. "People die."

"Neither of you is exactly in a position to point fingers," Isabel said. "You've both powered up in public before. I've seen you. And if I did, then how many others?"

"And I suppose you've never cheated?" her brother asked.

"Of course I have. It was an impossible promise to keep. But I stopped—except for the little things."

Max began to tick them off. "Lipstick, nail polish, perfume..."

"They don't count." Both boys immediately thought: _Typical girl._

"Why did you stop?" asked Michael.

"Because I didn't like how it made me feel. I was never sure that what I was doing was right. Or necessary. Or that no one had seen me. And as for mind-binding with humans, that just seemed—distasteful."

"When did you ever do that?" Max challenged. "Except in a dream."

"Dreams are different."

"Oh, so they don't count either?"

"I stopped that too. I stopped everything. Cold turkey." She turned to Michael. "And you did too. You must have, or I'd have seen you."

"Yeah, until tonight." He glanced sheepishly at Max. "And now you see why. I try to help, but I only make things worse. Then I don't know how to fix what I've done."

"Because you don't work at it," said Isabel.

Michael began to object. "She's right," Max chimed in. "It's your whole approach to life. You only do what makes you happy."

Michael answered quietly. "You think I'm happy?"

"He did heal River Dog that time," Isabel noted.

"Thanks," said Michael, "but"—he hesitated—"I'm not sure that was me."

"Who else could it have been?" asked Max.

"Maybe River Dog himself. I don't know. It felt like the time you healed me. Like something was passing through me into him." They took this in silently. "Weird, huh?"

"Everything's weird with us," said Max. "Maybe some day it'll all make sense."

"You stopped too, Max," said Isabel. "After Liz."

"Yeah," Max admitted. The others waited. "It was too much responsibility, all right? Take Liz. Sure I brought her back—but what about all the others out there who need help? Who am I to decide which ones deserve it and which ones don't?"

"So what do we do?" Isabel demanded. "Go somewhere else? Hide?"

"No, I won't go. And I can't hide."

"What, then?" Michael asked sullenly. "You tell us, since you know so much."

Max always felt sad when Michael made cracks like that; it was as if he had not heard a word Max said. "I _don't_ know. I don't pretend to. But as far as I can see, the only thing we can do is accept who we are, and figure out how to make the best use of our"—the word caught on his tongue—"superpowers."

The others looked troubled. Max saw he had expected too much of them. "You can't do it, can you?"

"Some day," said Michael. "Somewhere else."

"Where? Our home planet?"

Max had not meant the question seriously, but Michael took it that way. "Maybe so. Anyway, not here. Not when it's just the three of us."

Isabel rarely agreed with Michael, but this time she backed him up. "If we came out even to that extent," she said, "it would mean giving up our whole life."

"And if our life is a lie?" Max mused.

"Are our parents a lie? Is Liz?"

Max lowered his eyes. "Then I guess we're not ready. Not yet."

"This might help," said Michael, pulling out the artifact. "If we can ever figure out how to operate it."

Isabel huffed at him. "Put it away!" she ordered. "We can't even control the powers we have."

"Maybe we could," said Max, "with that."

Isabel shook her head, but in disapproval rather than in contradiction. Michael was regarding the object with some disgust. "I haven't been able to get it to do anything. I tried a drill, blowtorch, vertical press—"

Max stared at him aghast. "You did _what_?"

"Aw, don't worry. None of them fazed it."

Max was beyond words. "You're—you're—"

"Irresponsible?" Isabel suggested.

"Irresponsible," Max agreed. "Who knows what harm you might have done to it? Give it back!" He made a grab for it.

Michael held it away from him. "Nothing doing. I'm not done with it yet."

"What next, dynamite?"

"Coach Clay. I want to show it to him again."

"'Again'?" It just kept getting worse.

"Michael, he's FBI!" protested Isabel.

"So what? He knows what it is. I could see he did. Maybe I can trick him into telling me." This sounded a little harebrained even to himself, after he had spoken it aloud.

"They're the last people we want laying hands on it," Max declared. "Give it to me!" He made another grab, and this time clasped hold of one end while Michael clung onto the other. The two struggled for ownership.

They did not notice it at first when the thing started to beep, as it had before in the desert. Then all at once it emitted a crackling burst of light, and an electric shock peppered their insides; both let go at the same time, and the artifact dropped to the earth.

Max looked at Michael questioningly. "It never did _that_," said Michael. "Even when I used the tools on it. Or when some guys picked a fight with me."

This was a new worry Max knew nothing about. "What guys were these?"

"Doesn't matter. Clay put them up to it."

"So they weren't really angry. And neither were you when you did your—tests. But I was. It must have picked up on that, and that's why it reacted. What else can it do, I wonder?" He picked it up gingerly.

"Michael!" cried Isabel. "Isn't that the coach?"

"Where?" said Michael. Isabel pointed to a man who had been standing by a thick pine tree (the oldest in the park) but was now retreating up one of the paths. He glanced back long enough to show his face. "Nah," said Michael, "that's not him."

"That's not the man I saw," said Isabel. She looked around. "But there's no one else." She felt a sudden chill, which she attributed to the artifact. "Put that away, will you?" Max obediently tucked it into his jacket, and this time Michael did not object.

The sheriff was still musing over the incident outside the park when he came home. A blare of music and voices directed his attention to the living room, where Kyle was stretched out on the brown leather sofa in front of the tv. "You'll melt into that sofa some day, you don't watch it," Jim cautioned him.

"Yeah, how you doin' yourself, Dad?"

His father stopped and stood at his back long enough to assess the quality of the entertainment. "Movie," Kyle volunteered. "Title's _Stranger on My Pillow._"

"Women's channel?"

"What else?"

"Is it any good?"

"Nah, but the wife in it takes a whole lot of showers."

Jim watched with rather more interest than before. "Kyle," he said, as if it had just occurred to him and he had not been planning it all the way home, "how well do you know this kid, what's-his-name, Guerin? Friend of Max Evans?"

"Michael Guerin? I don't know him at all except through Liz. Why?"

"Thought maybe you could invite him over some time, so me and him could have a chat."

Kyle was silent for a long moment. "So it's him you're shadowing these days?"

"Hey, I'm not shadowing anybody. I just asked, was all."

"Uh-huh. And if I was to ask why you're asking?"

"No reason," Jim said innocently.

Kyle did not have to turn his head to know the look that went with that tone. "Uh, yeah, Dad, _reason._" He got to his feet. "Make you a deal, okay? The day you start sharing with me, I'll start sharing with you." He nodded at the tv. "Leave it on?"

"Nah, I'm going out again."

Kyle clicked it off with the remote. "But you just got in!"

"I'm going for a drink with Amy at the Reata."

"_Amy?_ Maria Deluca's mom?" Kyle rolled his eyes. "Jeez, Dad."

Valenti looked down at the hat in his hands. "And you wonder why I don't share more." With a shake of the head, he went to change.

Kyle wished now he had not made the comment. _I'm one to talk_, he said to himself. But it was too late to do anything about it, except apologize—and where was the point in that?

His father and Amy had their date, but Jim had her home by ten; both of them had things to do the next day, and besides, Amy was hoping to get in before her daughter, who had not been home when she left. As it happened, Maria was back, but had gone to bed early—which was almost as good for Amy's purpose. She knew Maria disapproved of her (or perhaps any adult) dating, and especially dating the man she was; she had broken it off with him once and had now resumed, but had not yet acquainted her daughter with the later fact. Not that she was trying to conceal it, exactly; she was simply not going out of her way to tell, or to give any hint.

When Jim brought her back home, the house was dark, but there was someone standing in the drive. Maria did not know this, and Amy never found out; as soon as the headlights appeared, but before they could show him up, he slipped into the side yard and hid behind the shrubs. Earlier in the day he had made it up with Maria (mainly so he could beg a ride from her to his detention the following morning), but had ended the evening early, determined to study the map again. He had soon tired of it as usual, and decided he would rather go and be with her, after all, but had arrived to find the place dark. That had been only a couple of minutes before.

He waited for the car to pass him, but it never did. Finally he peered around the wall to see a vintage black Mustang parked at the curb, its rear window sporting a decal that read "Support Your Local Sheriff." His breath caught in his throat.

The passenger door opened, and he quickly pulled back into the bushes. Amy stepped out. She shut the door gently, so as not to disturb her daughter (if she was stirring), and walked up the drive, a few feet from their visitor. He could have revealed himself to her, could have explained his presence, but he had a feeling she would have been as embarrassed as he would. And the sheriff was still lingering, probably to make sure she got inside safely; the lurker did not want to have to account to him for his being there. So he remained hidden.

Amy's was not the only tryst to occur that Friday night. But Liz's was not planned, or at least not by her. She was standing at her floor mirror in a close-to-new negligee, assessing the figure that it draped so flatteringly (as even she had to admit) when she happened to look toward the window and saw a face looking back at her. She gave a start—and then, a second later, recognized whose face it was. "Max!"

He ran his eye along her unconcealed lines, in unconcealed admiration. Liz was far more pleased than embarrassed, but tried not to show it. Immediately—but not all that speedily, Max noticed—she took a robe from the closet and covered herself with it. "May I come in?" he asked. Liz weighed the risk against the reward, and beckoned him inside. As he bent to fit through the window, she became conscious of her heart thumping; now why was that?

In a minute Max had gained the floor and was standing upright. "I need something from you," he said.

Liz's heart was still at it. "Oh?" she said, her breath almost overpowering her voice.

Max took from his jacket a now-familiar object. "Will you keep this for a while?" he asked. "And hide it where no one can find it?"

Liz felt obscurely disappointed. "But why me?"

"It's not safe with me. And even less safe with Michael." Liz stared at it without enthusiasm. "Please?" said Max.

"Well—since you said 'please.'"

Relieved, he handed it over. "Oh, one word of advice. Try to avoid having any—intense feelings in its vicinity."

Liz's antennae went up—not the ones on her Crashdown uniform, but her invisible, intuitive ones. "Why, exactly?"

"They could induce a sort of"—he searched for the right term—"energy burst."

"Is that another way of saying 'explosion'?"

"Tiny one. Nothing to worry about." Then he remembered. "As long as you don't make any sudden movements in its direction."

"Like a pit bull. I don't want this in my room!"

She thrust it back at him, but he dodged her. "The cafe, then." He thought again. "But probably not in the kitchen. On account of the heat."

"Max, I really don't think—"

"Have to be getting home now. Thanks, Liz." He darted out the window and across the deck to the fire ladder.

"Yeah," she muttered, "you too—_Maximilian._" For once Michael's nickname seemed to suit. She looked at the object with distaste. Then she carried it to the hiding place in the wall, where she laid it (very carefully) alongside her journal. She started to make an entry about it but then changed her mind; for now, it had best remain an unwritten secret.

Though no longer in charge of the item, Michael had not given up the idea of finding out more about it, somehow, from the coach. His detention, he hoped, would give him the opportunity; he was almost looking forward to it. So he was in unexpectedly good spirits when he arrived on campus early the next morning. Maria wheeled Amy's red Jetta onto an access road that ended near the gym. As Michael swung the door open, she clutched his arm. "You sure you want to go through with this?"

"No choice. You heard Wiley."

"You've told Max and Isabel, right?"

"No need. And don't you go telling them. I can take care of myself."

"Yeah, taking care of yourself was what got you into this in the first place."

"_Clay_ got me into this. Might as well see what else he's got up his sleeve. And what he knows that we don't." Maria's face showed her misgivings, and he shared them. But he was also feeling a confidence in himself she apparently lacked; it might not go deep or last long, but it might suffice to enable him to get what he needed out of Clay—if Clay did not get him first. "You go on to work," he told her. "I'll walk back."

Maria watched unhappily as he disappeared around a corner of the building. How would she be able to work today with such an awful gnawing in her stomach?

The side door was standing open. Michael stepped in to survey the room and, seeing no one there, entered farther. He heard a ball bouncing and turned to the sound. The coach was now behind him, standing in the corner by the door. He had a basketball and was dribbling to a slow beat, like the beat of a tom-tom: _Donk._ _Donk._ _Donk._ He left his corner and began pacing deliberately toward Michael. _Donk._ _Donk._ The rhythm seemed to take over Michael's heartbeat. _Donk._ "Where is it?" Clay asked.

"Where's what?" Maybe he would learn its name, if it had one.

"You know," Clay said.

"Haven't got it on me. See?" He opened his arms wide.

"It's foolhardy to cross me, stripling. As you'll learn before we're through."

_He talks weird for a coach_, Michael thought, _or for an FBI guy._ "Yeah? Do I lose my free throw or what?"

"You trying to be funny?" This sounded more like Clay. He was now holding the ball in his hands; suddenly he hurled it at Michael's head—faster than before, faster than seemed humanly possible. The volley caught Michael off guard, but his own reflexes were so quick he was able to elbow it aside. "What, no balloon this time?" said Clay. As before, the ball somehow came back to him, and he continued his advance.

Michael retreated. "You really don't want to do this, Coach."

Clay smiled. "Oh, yes. I do." Then he dropped the smile. "Where is it?"

Michael tried not to sound scared, or to be scared. "First you tell me what you know about it. Then maybe we can work a deal."

Clay detected the genuine curiosity that underlay the bluff. "You really don't know. I thought—" The discovery seemed to have thrown off his calculations, and he hesitated.

"I know who you are," Michael boasted, trying to sound less ignorant than he was. "I didn't before, but I do now."

Clay regarded him with a slight change of expression. "Good for you."

"You shouldn't have showed your hand so soon, you know. Topolsky was smarter."

"Who's Topolsky?"

"Don't try to b.s. me."

"Why should I bother? I don't give a damn about this Topolsky, whoever he is."

Michael, strangely, believed him. "Guess your section chief should have briefed you better. What'd he tell you about that thing, anyway?" He still had hopes of finding out something about it, though he knew this attempt was weak.

Clay gave a contemptuous laugh, but for another reason. "You think I'm one of them? _Them?_ They couldn't recover a missing dog. Their only achievement is to run about in circles—and the circles grow ever wider."

"Sounds to me like you know plenty about them."

"I should. They've been tracking me since 1959."

Michael stared at him: this, he had not foreseen. Clay (to grant him the identity he had most recently stolen) directed his gaze to the floor. A spot appeared on it and lengthened into a curving line an inch deep, with rough edges, as if it were being etched into the varnished wood by an invisible finger of fire. It expanded into a circle and was then joined by two more lines, one on each side, like parentheses. Michael recognized the symbol from the map, the same one he had burned into the library lawn to attract the attention of the person, or being, whom he had been waiting for, the only other known emigré from their home planet—who was now standing before him. He stared up at Clay again. "That's right, Michael," he said, smiling, almost gloating. "You summoned me." He stepped into the figure he had etched. "Now deal with me."

Unknown to either, Maria was listening from the hall. She had changed her mind about going, and now she was glad of it. One of the row of doors was half-open; the sign on it identified the office as Clay's. She could phone Liz from there. But Liz would be at work, and powerless to help anyhow; Max could, but he would be working too, and might prefer not to reveal himself to someone who was not an ally, as Michael had expected, but an enemy.

Beneath the sheet of glass that covered most of the desktop Maria spied a phone list; Wiley's name was included. He was now her best bet, strange as that seemed. On punching in his number, she got a recorded instruction to leave a message at the tone. "Mr. Wiley?" she said. "Pick up if you're there." He did not. "Okay, then come to the basketball gym right away. There's going to be trouble between Michael and the coach. Get here soon. Please." When she spoke the last words, she had already hung up.

On the desk sat a stack of unopened mail and a stack of untouched papers, both dating back two weeks. Maria began searching the drawers for a weapon, or some object to distract Clay, as well as to gratify her own curiosity. In the upper right drawer she found two unlabeled pill bottles, one half empty, the other one full. Of course, they might have belonged to the real Clay, but she did not think so; West Ros had a zero-tolerance policy respecting drugs, one that applied to the faculty as well as the student body, and Clay was, or had been, a by-the-book type. Maria was sure she knew whose pills they were—and she gathered they must be important for him to keep a spare in reserve. Whatever their function was, he needed them.

Inside he and Michael stood facing each other. Michael could hardly believe that the encounter he had looked forward to for so long had turned out to be another ordeal, another persecution, another fight. He waited for the next move.

Then he heard a loud pop overhead. And another, and another—many of them in quick succession, like the noises of popcorn popping. He raised his eyes to the ceiling, which was festooned with baby spotlights; they were changing, one by one, to basketballs, or spheres that were like basketballs, but bigger and heavier, so heavy that one of them snapped loose from its mount and crashed to the floor, making a small crater. Then they were all doing it, breaking off, raining down, and Michael was shifting this way and that to dodge them. As their popping spread across the ceiling, it was drowned out by the thunder of their landings.

At last came one Michael could not dodge; it was plummeting straight toward him. With scarcely a moment's thought, he changed it to a soap bubble, which broke harmlessly over his head. Now that he had discovered the trick, he used it on the others as they fell, one by one, and made of them a whole sea of bubbles; hardly had it appeared when it dissolved.

"That's the best you can do?" Clay mocked him. "And you claim to be one of us?"

The basketball in his hands changed to a meteorite, and gained in color until it glowed red-hot. He raised his arms for a throw, and Michael fled to the bleachers. "Best run, cub," he heard below and behind him, "or I'll finish you!" The projectile whizzed past his ears into the rows above, where it exploded in a tussock of flame. A second later the steel he was standing on changed to glass, cracked under his weight, and then shattered, sending him from the third tier up to the floor, which he met with a hard bump. "Why are you doing this?" he cried out.

"Because you're weak, like the humans. And the weak must be eliminated."

They heard a girl's voice from the hall door. "Hey, you! Mork from Ork!" Maria was back.

Michael attempted to wave her off. "Get out of here!" he shouted.

Maria ignored him, as she was accustomed to doing. While he with an effort picked himself up, she strolled out to the center of the court, her hands behind her back. "If you're so all-powerful," she asked, in her most innocent voice, "then what are these for?" She brought out her hands, with a pill bottle in each.

As often, her hunch paid off. "Give them to me!" Clay ordered.

"What, these? No, you know, I don't think so." She twisted the lids off both, upturned them and poured out the contents, shook it empty, and then called into play her best dance step to grind the litter into the heavily dented floor.

"Stop her!" Clay ordered Michael, who was ten yards away from her, to Clay's thirty. Then he turned his own eyes on her. Almost immediately her top and jeans began to sizzle; wisps of smoke rose from them. She could feel their heat scorching her.

"Stop him!" she ordered Michael.

"What do you owe humans?" Clay countered. "Except sixteen years of grief."

"Says the guy who just tried to kill you."

"Only to bring you to life!" This was a switch from the abuse he had been doling out, an obvious attempt to win Michael to his side. And yet...

Michael _did_ feel alive. More alive than he ever had before. In fighting for his survival, he had shown what he was made of; he had been a hero—a superhero, almost a god. So this was what it was like to be himself as he was born to be, unhampered by humans or his own incapacity (which he was inclined now to blame on humans and their planet); this was what it felt like to be—_him._

"Decide, Michael," Clay said. "Her kind or your own."

"And preferably sooner rather than later," she put in, "or her kind will be _no_ kind."

Michael stood immobile for what seemed like an eternity. Then he turned toward her. But he did not stop what Clay was doing; he stopped what was being done. Maria felt her clothes grow wet as they hung on her; they began to sweat water. Within a few seconds they were clinging to her body, cold and clammy.

Then her feet gave way; an oil slick was gushing across the floor and she found herself lying in it—and then sliding in a beeline toward Clay. She tried uselessly to brake herself. Another basketball had appeared in his hand. He began to twirl it, and as he twirled, it changed to a ball of lightning that sparked and crackled and spun and continued to spin, faster and faster. And it was getting bigger and bigger with every second, until it was almost her own size.

Her slide on the oil had brought her almost to Clay's feet. He drew his arm back to hurl the lightning down on her, like Zeus from Olympus. Maria cringed. But then Clay halted, rocking a little on the soles of his feet, as if the strength had been suddenly drained from him.

Before he could recover, a voice sounded out: "Let those kids be!" The voice was Wiley's. It seemed to revive Clay to an awareness of what he was doing—and in an instant all was back to normal: he was holding a plain basketball; the ceiling lights and the bleachers were intact. The only marvel remaining was the symbol gouged into the floor, but a moment later the wood had healed over and it was gone too. Maria had never seen the changes rung on such a scale or at such a tempo; she felt as if she were dreaming the whole thing. Wiley was clutching his head as if to keep his brains from falling out. He had confidence that a sensible explanation existed for what he had just witnessed, but it was opaque to him at present.

Clay was fleeing for the front doors. "Get back here, mister!" Wiley barked. Clay did not stop.

Maria picked herself up with a groan. She was still sore where she had fallen; Clay had neglected to change that back. Michael approached her. "You all right?" he asked. Maria shook her head, but not in answer to his question; the denial was more extensive. She was looking at him in a way she never had before—somewhat as if he had left her stranded in the dead of night on an unfamiliar street corner, on an unfamiliar planet.

Wiley joined the two of them. By then he had recovered his composure a little. "Tell me what happened here."

Maria sidestepped the task. "Guess you got my message. You got here so fast."

"I don't know anything about any message. I just felt a—kind of need to look in. Outside, I met Pete—the new man." He looked toward the side door, where a tall, bearded man was standing, wearing a grey maintenance uniform. Neither of the students could recall having seen him before. "Under control now, Pete," said Wiley. The man slipped away. "Never saw the coach behave like that," said Wiley. "I can't figure it." He surveyed the room again. "Just can't figure it."

Michael found the phrase to sum it up. "Coach hasn't been himself lately."

At the park that evening he described for the others, as well as he could, all that had happened. Maria was not on hand to assist him; after the incident she had gone home alone, called in sick to work, and had not been seen since. Liz, however, was there, having escaped her house arrest by inventing a task that would keep her in the kitchen after her parents had retired upstairs. Eventually if they did not hear her come up they would check on her; she could not risk being gone for more than a few minutes.

After Michael finished his account, everyone was silent for a few moments, taking it in. "You're sure it was Nasedo?" said Max.

"Isn't that what I said?"

"It's not like he told you his name."

"He didn't need to—"

"Excuse me," Liz interrupted, "technically Nasedo isn't a name. It's more of a title—it means 'visitor.' And, strictly speaking, you're all visitors in that sense, so—"

The others were staring at her. "Liz," Max whispered, "it's not that important. In the circumstances."

"I suppose not." Max started to put another question. "I mean, if _accuracy_ isn't important to you. But in that case, you might as well—"

"Aren't you supposed to be at home?" Isabel inquired pointedly.

"I asked her to come help," said Max.

"Then help," said Isabel, "or keep quiet."

"Sorry," said Liz, more meekly than before.

Michael had been waiting impatiently to answer Max's question. "It _is_ like he told me his name. He said I summoned him here. He knew the symbol."

"But why would he try to kill you?" said Isabel.

"Well, that's what he does, right? Isn't that what you all have been trying to tell me this whole time? Only I was too stupid to get it before."

"He doesn't kill his own kind," said Max.

"That we know of." The qualification came from Liz. "He might have, and then disposed of the bodies, mightn't he?"

Max reflected. "He didn't do that with the others. The humans."

"Except Coach," said Michael.

Max frowned. "Do we know that for sure?"

"Nobody's seen him, have they? Since Nasedo took his place?"

"Of course not," said Liz. "To impersonate him successfully, he'd have to get rid of the original. If it was me I'd use a lye bath. And for the bones, a chainsaw..."

She realized the others were staring at her again, and she shut up. "You're scary sometimes," said Max.

He turned back to the group. "He usually leaves a trail. And I think it's deliberate. He wants people to know he's out there. Wants them to be intimidated by him—that is, by us. Aliens.."

"You're assuming he's sane," Liz observed. As they all considered this, she gave Max a peck on the cheek. "Better get back before someone decides to check up on me."

"Thanks," said Isabel, grudgingly. Liz smiled at her as she hurried off.

Michael was not smiling. "So this is the great Nasedo. This is the whole deal. Figures."

"Sorry," said Max. "I know you'd been hoping—"

"Yeah, hope is great. But other people have a way of screwing it up."

"I think you'd be wisest to stay out of his way until..."

"Until when?"

"Don't know," Max confessed.

"Ditch gym for the rest of the semester? Then I _will_ be suspended. Guaranteed."

"He may not come back," suggested Isabel, "now that Wiley's seen him in action. I hope he didn't see you."

"Wiley doesn't know _what_ he saw. By the time he locked up and went home, he'd half convinced himself he never saw anything."

Isabel laughed. "Typical human reaction."

"If he does come back," said Max, not referring to Wiley now, "we'll face him together. The three of us."

"And then what?" asked Isabel.

"We do what we have to. Or what we're able to. Since he's not—local, there'll be no complications."

"Complications?" repeated Michael. "What complications?"

Max was reluctant to use the word. "Survivors."

Michael had not quite understood until that moment what Max was talking about. Now that he did, his whole being—at least the part of himself he knew—rebelled against it. "No!" he shouted. "You can't!"

His reaction surprised them. "He'd do the same to you," Isabel pointed out.

"Why not?" asked Max. Michael did not answer. "You can't still believe he's—" Michael's eyes grew wide, and for that moment his face lay as open as a baby's for others to read. Max had not realized. "You _do._ Oh, Michael..."

Feeling exposed and confused, helpless to cope with so much trauma at once, Michael did the only thing he knew to do: to run away. "Come back!" Max shouted, to no avail. He turned to his sister. "Now what do we do?"

"Wait for him to see sense," she said, "and hope he doesn't get himself killed in the meantime." Max nodded. "The usual," Isabel added.

When Michael got back to his apartment building he found Maria waiting at the side door. "You coulda gone in," he said. "Why didn't you?" He had made her a key himself (manually), and knew she carried it with her on a separate chain—one of her mother's creations, with a flying-saucer fob.

"Wasn't sure I'd be welcome," she said. Michael did not know how to answer; for her, that was answer enough. But she went on regardless. "I never thanked you today. For saving my life and that."

"We're even."

There was a pause. Michael had in his hand the key to the door but made no move to open it. And Maria made no move to leave. "You know"—he hated himself for what he was going to say—"it's late and—"

"Why did you hesitate?" She said it quietly, but hurt throbbed in every word; Michael could not pretend he did not hear, or understand. "When you had to choose sides, you hesitated. Why?"

Now he hesitated again. "Maybe he was right."

"Right how?"

"If it comes to a showdown—may as well say use the word, a war—I won't get to choose. The choice will be made for me." He looked away. "It won't be the choice I made today."

"And what about us?" asked Maria. She found that for some reason her voice would hardly serve her.

"Which 'us' are you talking about?" Michael could tell that this affronted her, and he had not meant it to; he made a last effort to explain. "If other humans find out what I am and what I do, you think they'll let me keep wandering around loose? I'll end up in a cage—or on a slab. Max and Isabel too. That's how it is between your people and mine."

Maria saw a gulf between them which until then she had imagined to be no more than a pothole that could easily steered around. "So no matter how much any of us put out for you—I'm speaking metaphorically here—in your mind we're still the enemy. All of us." She waited. "Tell me I'm wrong."

He looked more severe than she had ever known him to. "I don't think I can," he said. "Because I don't think you are." He let himself in and pushed the door shut behind him, without a goodbye or any other word.

Maria felt as if she had been punched in the gut. She stood for another minute or two—or five, she could not tell afterwards—until she had recovered sufficiently to be certain of being able to guide the Jetta safely out of the carport. Michael listened to it from his window. The sound of it was like breathing, and faded as it grew more distant: soon he could not hear it at all.

If Maria had been asked, she would have sworn that nothing could make her feel lousier than she had at Michael's. But that was before she reached home and found a beige Range Rover filling the drive. Displaced to a parking space on the street, she was feeling resentful on this count alone when she went in. Almost at once, her eyes were met with the sight of the vehicle's authorized keyholder reclining in the lounge chair and looking more at home there than Maria liked. He promptly sat up, as if he had been caught doing something illicit.

"Sheriff," she said, trying to strike a balance between sounding surprised and not at all surprised.

For his part, Jim tried to sound easy and comfortable with her, which he clearly was not. "Maria. Hey there. Your mom's just getting ready."

It took Maria a moment to absorb the import of this. When she did, she gave forth with what Jim would have described as a wail: "Mo-o-om!"

Amy was at her bedside mirror threading a pair of hoop earrings when her daughter marched in to demand of her, "Okay, what's going on?"

"Going on?" she echoed, in as innocent a tone as she could muster on such short notice. "Why, what could be going on?"

"What's the Lone Ranger doing out there?"

Amy had known this moment would come sooner or later. "You mean Jim? Well, the two of us have a dinner date, if that meets with your approval." In back of her own reflection she caught sight of Maria's, peevish and sulky. This got Amy's back up. "No, you know, actually it doesn't matter if you approve or not, because I'm the parent here." She grabbed her coat from a chair.

"You told me you'd stopped seeing each other."

"Did I? I suppose I did. Well, we've started again. We've been out for drinks a couple of times."

"You didn't tell me."

"No," Amy said. With that, she walked out. Maria followed her out to the front, where Jim was waiting. He rose as she entered. "All ready, steady?" she said, winking at him. "Let's do it."

Jim grinned. "You look mighty apprehendable."

Amy gave the appearance of blushing (except for the actual blush). "Oh, I bet you say that to all the felons." _Eeew_, thought Maria. She made a silent vow never to flirt past the age of 30.

Jim turned his grin on her. "Some day soon, you and I'll have to sit down and have us a chat."

"Preparing my alibi already."

Jim chuckled unconvincingly. He and Amy moved together to the door. "Don't wait up for us," Amy enjoined Maria. _When did I ever?_ thought Maria—and then she thought, _Us?_ The two went out, and Maria watched through a window as Jim held the car door open with the smooth air of a Southern gentleman. Amy made little flirting gestures with her fingers and dangled them for him to kiss, which he did with the same genteel air while she giggled and simpered. _Eeew_, Maria thought again. How did people become grown-ups, anyway? Was it due to some kind of virus? Could she escape somehow?

Michael had gone for a walk, partly to shake her from his mind, but also with a larger purpose, for which he had planned it in the first place. His first destination was the public library. The distance to it was not so great (compared with what was to follow), and he covered it in about an hour.

On arriving, he stopped in front of the building and crouched down on the lawn. With a wave of his hand, he changed a section of the grass to unplanted dirt, and with a second wave he made it level. He took from his jacket the replica map and unfolded it on the ground. Then he took out a small canvas sack and poured into his hand what it contained: the five yellow stones.

Only now they were glowing blue. _Am I doing that?_ he asked himself. But he knew better instantly. "It's the place, isn't it?" he said. "You guys are picking up something from it." From having them with him most of the time, he had formed a habit of talking to them as companions (though the conversations were inevitably one-sided.) "Yeah, I feel it too. Something here plugs into the Balance. Or _is_ the Balance—whatever the Balance is. That's what these places have in common." Maria had said there was something, and had been right; momentarily Michael looked forward to sharing the discovery with her, and then remembered.

Above him hung the shining V that he had earlier identified, by an intuitive flash, as the constellation of Aries. He kept meaning to confirm this identification with Liz, who was taking astronomy, but he had not gotten around to it yet. Looking from the map to its celestial original above, he re-oriented it so that the two were in the same alignment. Of the six sites on the map, all located in and around Roswell, and all (he now believed) having to do with the Balance, the library was the only one that was known; tonight he would go hunting for the others.

He reviewed the map again. The symbol with the parentheses marked where he was; the one nearest it was the miniature solar system, which lay south southwest. Whatever it was, if he walked far enough in that direction he would hit it. But how far would he have to walk? He had no way of gauging the scale of the map. "But Roswell ain't all that big," he said. Nor was it—by the measure of, say, Santa Fe or Albuquerque.

Suddenly he glimpsed something out of the corner of his eye—a flicker, a shift of light—which prompted him to look at the big library sign: "Basic Binary," it read. _That's wrong_, he thought. He looked away and then back. "Public Library," it read now; the words were back to normal. He must have been seeing thing—and no wonder. He returned the stones to their sack, pocketed it along with the map, and then began walking as the crow flies, or nearly. Passing below a row of twin-headed street lamps in their identical curlicued holders, he did not notice that each pair in turn flared up and dimmed as he moved into their light and out again—no doubt the work of the stones, still charged, still as if alive.

Two blocks on he came to a row of houses that lay squarely in his path. Such a possibility had never occurred to him. He considered blazing a trail through them (literally) but decided against it. Instead he circled around and took up his course again on the other side. Presently another row of houses blocked him, he circled around again, and then he confronted a labyrinth: the streets ran seemingly in all directions, except the one he wanted. He realized this was how it was in a city, even ain't-all-that-big Roswell. He pressed on nevertheless, trying to hold to south southwest by using the figure in the sky as a compass, but he could not tell how far he had deviated to one side or the other; for all he knew, he might have strayed outside the map's precincts altogether.

So it was a happy surprise for him when he hove into sight of a likely landing, the Roswell soap factory, which had been the site of a notorious police raid earlier in the year, and a city landmark since the turn of the century. He reached confidently for the stones—and found to his dismay that they were not glowing, even a little; this was not the right place.

In front of him stood a bronze marker on a concrete stand with a facade of cracked stone. "Roswell Soap Factory," read the inscription. "Opened 1899. Closed 1948." The building behind had reopened later as a different kind of factory, and then closed again, at least a generation before Michael, yet for various reasons had never been torn down. It stirred his curiosity—but only as a matter of local history; it was not what he was looking for tonight.

He was ready to leave, resuming his quest, when something unexpected happened: the stand began to vibrate. From vibrating, it went to quivering, and from quivering to quaking. Michael took a step back, and then another.

What happened next he would not have believed if he had been human. The stand began to swell up as if air were being pumped into it, enlarging in every direction, but from side to side the most, until it attained a width of twelve feet. And as it enlarged it also changed shape, becoming—there was no mistaking it—a giant bar of soap. Michael could almost have laughed at the sight, but it felt like nothing to laugh at. Then the monstrosity began bubbling, furiously and obscenely; lather drooled down its sides and streamed away across the ground. And Michael knew who was doing it. "Where are you?" he called out.

"Where's who?" a voice answered him. It came from a few yards behind him, and it was not Clay's voice. But then, Clay—that is, Nasedo—could be anybody. Michael swung round with his fists clenched.

When he saw who it was, he unclenched them. It was possible she was Nasedo in another form, but somehow he knew she was not. "Topolsky," he said, and then corrected himself: "Excuse me, _Agent_ Topolsky." She was alone, and unarmed. He had not expected to see there, but that was only because he had not seen her recently; if she was now back in circulation, she would be as apt to pop up there as anywhere else. The black Impala that had brought her, but whose approach he had never heard, was standing athwart the entrance to the parking lot.

The former high school teacher and undercover agent regarded her former student and surveillance target in a strangely provocative manner, which he remembered as typical of her. "Michael Guerin," she said. "Of all people." That made it sound as if the two of them had previously enjoyed a special rapport, whereas to his recollection they had only spoken two or three times. "Who were you talking to just now?" she asked.

"Myself."

"Yourself," she repeated skeptically. "You do realize it's past curfew? You're not supposed to be here."

"Then I'll leave."

"No." She touched his sleeve lightly. "Not yet." She moved her eyes to the marker. It had returned to its former shape, but a coat of snow-white froth painted the stand and the ground around it. "Did you do this?" She answered herself. "No, I don't believe you did. What do you know about it?"

Michael smiled. "You first."

"I know nothing. Since I was relieved of my teaching assignment, the Bureau's been keeping me in the dark."

"I thought you liked the dark. Isn't that why you took the job?"

"I took the job—" She stopped. "Story for another day. And you wouldn't believe me, anyway."

"Do I have reason to?"

"Perhaps not." She faced him eye to eye. "Michael, it was never you and your friends we were after. Oh, for a while the sheriff had a cockeyed idea that Max might be this serial killer we're tracking—"

"Nasedo," Michael automatically filled in. Too late, he realized his slip.

"Nasedo? What kind of a name is that?"

"Mesaliko. But it's more like a title. It means 'visitor.'" Liz's pedantry had proved useful , after all.

"'Visitor.' Appropriate—wouldn't you agree?"

Michael deflected her probe without meaning to, by taking the discussion on a different route. "And if there are other 'visitors,' they must all be like him, right?" His accumulation of resentments was starting to show.

"No, one killer doesn't make a race of killers. Or where would humans be?" She ran her eye along the trail of foam, as if seeking a pattern in it. "You know, I've had a couple of—setbacks lately. One of them was engineered by your friends—not that I'm blaming them for it. But you owe me in a way." _I owe you nothing_, Michael thought. But he figured she knew that as well as he did. "You can help me recover my credibility," she concluded.

"You mean with your FBI buddies?"

"Not only that." She was speaking almost in a whisper. "And to make it work I need information—information you have, or can get."

Was she trying to recruit him to be her snitch? This was as fantastic as the metamorphosis he had just witnessed; life just kept getting stranger and stranger. He was too busy processing the discovery to do other than answer her truthfully. "Ms. Topolsky, right now I'm not sure what _I_ know. Let alone who I can trust."

This was approximately what she had expected to hear. And she knew the feeling herself. "All right—for now. Come on, I'll drive you home."

"I'll walk."

"Can't." She tapped her wrist meaningfully. "Curfew."

Elsewhere in the area, the same city ordinance that obliged Michael to accept her offer was being applied to a different purpose: to give the sheriff exclusive domain over an area it had taken him nearly an hour to reach: a circular plateau off 285 south, named (for no reason known to anybody now living) Angels' Ground. It was the favored parking spot of the town's high school students—others too, but them mainly—and a small fleet of cars and pick-ups was to be seen there until all hours every Friday and Saturday night, in flagrant violation of the law. Usually the law looked the other way, but tonight, unexpectedly, a beige Range Rover with a county insignia on its doors appeared over the crest of the drive and wheeled to a stop.

The whole parking area, which had lain tranquil to all appearances, whatever might have been going on in the car seats, instantly sprang to life. Engines revved up, headlights blinked on, cars slunk away one by one, leaving the place entirely to the couple in the Rover, and nobody else. "So this was why you brought the squad car," said Amy.

Jim was looking pleased with himself. "Could be."

"You enjoy having this kind of power. Admit it!"

"Kinda. Don't you?" Amy nodded, laughing.

He pulled up at the edge of the rim overlooking the town and he shut off the engine. After the last of the exiles had passed out of hearing, the two of them sat taking in the quiet around them and the starry dome overhead. "Haven't been here since I was in my teens," said Amy. "Late teens—but still."

"And they still come. It's a Roswell tradition. Do you happen to know if Maria and her boyfriend...?"

"Jim! Would she tell me? And if she did, would I tell you?"

He made a sound of assent. "How much do you know about that kid?" He tried, as with Kyle, to make the question sound casual.

"Michael? I had my doubts about him, I must say. But, Jim, he's a good kid. Hard-working—supporting himself, going to school—and he cares a great deal for Maria." It was fortunate for Michael she had not heard their last conversation.

"Don't you think he's a little secretive?"

"Aren't they all? How about yours?"

"Yeah, but that one's my fault. He sees me getting like his granddad, so he writes me off, same as I wrote Senior off after he got to be such a sorehead—always fighting with everybody, always squawking. Now I'm like him. I want to know, like he did. Want it too much sometimes."

"To know what?"

Jim realized he had said more than he should have. He tried to laugh it off. "Know where to find the best-looking gal in town, is what. Hey, wait! She's right here." He reached over and touched her cheek softly.

Amy liked that. But she was about to be so easily sidetracked. "Is that why were you asking me about Michael before?"

"Was I?"

"You know, the _secretive_ one?"

Jim made a special effort to keep his face composed. "Don't recall that. Sure you heard me right?"

Amy grew quiet. "You know, I put up with a lot in my first—" She reddened. "In my marriage," she amended. "For Maria's sake I did. But one thing I can't accept is being a—device." This elicited a quizzical look from him. "A means of getting information," Amy explained. "Especially information about my daughter and my daughter's friends. If I found out you were using me that way, I'd consider it a betrayal—of us both." She eyed him hopefully. "You're not, are you?"

He was not—or at least not in a way that mattered—but her guess was accurate enough to instill a measure of discomfort, which Jim masked with a laugh. "Come here, best-looking gal, ya." He pulled her closer to him.

"You didn't answer me," she said. But she let him kiss her. For the rest of the evening—and it lasted a long while—Michael did not figure in their thoughts again.

Back at home, he lay wishing for sleep, but memories prevented it, a swarm of them (they always attacked in swarms), too numerous to fend off all at once:

...He was out on the desert, under a moon and stars he was seeing for the first time. He was naked and cold, and knew nothing beyond what he could see and feel. Two others, who had not become Max and Isabel yet, also naked and presumably also cold, were exploring more bravely, venturing out onto the black strip that cut through the plain. On it a monster approached. He heard its roar, saw its shining yellow eyes and the beam they cast onto the other two. They cried to him, wordlessly, but he hid behind a rock and stopped his ears and would not come. When he unstopped them, he heard the roar no more. When he peered out, he saw the monster had gone, and had taken them with it...

"Come back!" he cried—cried it now, as he had not been able to then, because he lacked the words. "Don't leave me! I don't want to be alone!" The tenant in the next apartment thumped on the wall for him to be quiet.

...He was standing in the middle of the strip, waiting for another monster—waiting in hope, without understanding what it was; waiting longer than he would ever be willing to wait again. At last he saw it in the distance, galloping toward him, and he raised his arms in welcome. Its yellow eyes got bigger and bigger, brighter and brighter, until they blinded him and made the rest of the world—the only world he knew so far—disappear.

...He was sitting alone on a cot, wearing a shirt that hung to his knees, in a dim room with bare concrete walls. He ran out the door into a hall with walls as bare as the room's, and headed for another door at the far end. A man in uniform grabbed him by the neck and dragged him back. He tried to struggle free, and was knocked down for his trouble; he picked himself up, started for the door again, and was knocked down again. And again and again, as many times as it took, until hope—which he now understood—was gone...

"What is this place?" he asked, ten years too late for an answer. "Where are the people who are supposed to look out for kids? How does it happen you can do this to me?"

...He was changing hands, like a package, as a roll of bills changed hands in the opposite direction. He was outside, next to a high wall with barbed wire along the top, and the man in uniform was handing him over to—Hank. He had found his monster. He ran again, and was knocked down again, this time by the man who had bought him to be his son...

"You taught me what this world is like," he said, though Hank was no longer around to hear. "It's a prison, and I'm the prisoner."

...He was doing the chores—all of them, Hank's as well as his own—and getting smacked for doing them wrong, or doing them slowly, or for any reason at all. He could not fight Hank and win—or had not yet discovered that he could. So he fought other boys instead.

...He was pinned down, being pounded on by an opponent who outsized him; pounded so hard and so fast he could not hit back. He thought of his favorite toy, almost his only toy, a floppy puppy. Hank had not bought it for him; not Hank; another family had moved out and left it behind. It was so soft, so harmless and squeezeable; if only the arm hammering at him was like that!

—and suddenly it was. The arm went limp and spongy. The older boy screamed. Michael quickly undid what he had done (though the arm was never quite the same after that). But the boy had seen, and so had the onlookers; they all backed off. And they kept backing off.

...And Michael got smacked for it—once for the fighting, once for scaring the other kids, and twice for scaring Hank. The others spread the story around school, so that soon even those who did not believe it shied away from him. Occasionally he would run into a new kid who had not heard it and would be spoiling for him, and they would fight and Michael would win, and get smacked and shunned again, until finally he stopped fighting...

"What's the point?" said the grown Michael, the final product of these tribulations. "No matter how many times you win, in the end they beat you down."

...And their faces paraded before him, the faces of all his tormentors. "You guys, it's been great," he said. "No, seriously."

Long past curfew, he returned to the place where he had left his invitation for the one he had looked to see and had now seen. Tonight he looked to see him again—and perhaps vice versa. He could not have said when the figure first appeared at the border of the library lawn; he might have been there all along.

Michael spoke to him from where he was standing, without raising his voice; he knew it was not necessary. "I waited for you," he said. "Night after night I waited, and I prayed. Didn't even know who I was praying to."

"And I came." He did not raise his voice either, yet Michael heard it clearly.

"Yeah, you came. One more disappointment in a whole line of them." He gave a laugh that sounded like the opposite of laughter. "You know who I thought you were?—you'll love this—I actually thought—"

"That I was your father? I _am._" And suddenly he was standing in front of him, though he had seemed not to move. "You were right, Michael. You felt it because it's so."

Michael wanted to believe, in spite of everything that had happened between them, but he also resisted believing; he did not want to be fooled another time. "Then why didn't Max feel it? Or Isabel?"

"There's nothing for them to feel. I'm _your_ father, not theirs. You are my only son." He smiled. "In whom I am well pleased."

The scriptural reference passed Michael by, and he would have rejected it anyway. "But you tried to kill me! A father wouldn't..." He stopped, remembering Hank.

"That was to make you fight back. And you hate me for it, don't you?" Michael did not answer; he did not have to. "Good! Nurture that hatred. _Use_ it. But not on me—on _them._ The ones who've been hurting you all your life—the _humans._" Michael wondered if Clay could read his memories, which had so recently reasserted themselves.

"You've learned to defend yourself," Clay continued. "That's good. But it's not enough. You've discovered so yourself. You have to strike first—crush them before they crush you. Because they will, given the chance." He paused. "You're right, you can't do it alone." Michael's mind had barely formed the thought. "Join with me, and persuade your friends to do the same. We'll take them on together."

"The four of us against the whole population of Earth? Yeah, that'll work."

"There are others out there waiting to be woken. Or awake but trackless—in need of a leader."

"You?"

"You and I. We'll unite them, and together we'll arm ourselves for the fight to come."

"Arm ourselves how?"

"With the object in your keeping."

"That thing Max found? What is it?" At last he was going to find out.

"A Balancer, it's called. The only one of its kind left. It can multiply our power by a hundredfold."

"Funny, Isabel said the same thing."

"Women sense power. They thrive on it."

"And that's our weapon?"

"Only the part we can see. A channeling device. The greater part lies here beneath us—and in other places, if they can only be found."

"The Balance," said Michael. And the places were those he was hunting for, those from the map; he had surmised correctly about them.

"The Balance," Clay confirmed.

"But the Balance isn't a weapon. It heals. It healed me."

"It does what's it's asked to. Heals or rends, changes water to wine or order to chaos. But you must ask in the proper way. I'll show you how—if you'll just give it to me."

Yet after all of that, in spite of all Clay's efforts, Michael found he was not ready to turn the object over—even if he had had it on him, even if Clay was his father (he could not reach a conclusion on this point).

"Make you a deal," he said. "You tell me how to power it on, and I'll test it. To make sure it's what you say." He was inventing the excuse as he went along, and sounded like it. "Meanwhile I'll let you have the stones." After all, they had been Nasedo's to start with. And in the absence of a real bargaining chip, they were the closest thing he had.

"You've got stones? A special kind of stones?"

"That's what the ladies tell me." From the upswing in Clay's voice, it had been clear he had not known about the stones, that they were _not_ his. This meant the story was more complicated than Michael had thought, and the stones more important to it. He repented now of his offer, and so was trying to pass it off as a joke.

Clay was not amused, or fooled. "The Stones! And the one—" He censored what he had been about to say. "—and the Balancer! Give them to me!" His desire showed too plainly; realizing this, he made an effort to moderate it, and to imbue Michael with it also. "They'll be ours, yours and mine. And this human colony. We'll conquer and rule it together as father and son."

But it all came too late, and too easy, and Michael believed none of it. "Family enterprise, huh? Gee, thanks for the offer, Dad. But I'd rather stay on my own."

"And the hostiles? Can you defeat them on your own?"

"There've been problems," he admitted. "But a few people have gone out of their way to give me a hand up." He thought of Max's father, Liz's father, Maria's mother. "What have you done for me lately?"

"I've shown you the way."

"_Your_way."

"The only way for all our people. As you'll learn in time."

"Not in your time." He turned to go. On the action, a wall of red fire rose up in front of him. "Again?" Michael sighed.

"The Stones! And the Balancer!"

"Not a chance."

He directed his focus to the dancing flames and changed them to fountains of water. Almost at once they changed back. He did the same again, and again they reverted. Fire. Water. Fire. Water. Fire—but this time it rose no higher than his knees; above it, all was water, and the blazing orange tongues bent beneath it. With only a little effort, Michael found he could quash them; at that moment, his power exceeded Clay's. The wall of water pressed down harder and harder on that flaming base, driving it down farther and farther, until it disappeared, leaving the grass was charred black where it had stood.

Clay was hunched over on all fours, his head bowed, his breathing labored. He sat back, took out a small bottle like those Maria had emptied, and shook a few pills into his mouth. Michael stepped up to him and regarded him with a feeling almost of pity, but not quite. "_Are_ you my father?" he asked. "Are you anything to me?"

The answer came between deep breaths. "You have—no father."

And Michael knew it was true; he felt it as he had never felt any kinship to Clay. "Then there's no reason for me not to kill you, is there?" He said it, and he meant it. But now that it had come to this, he was not sure he could, even if he had the power: in the heat of a fight, maybe, but not in cold blood.

Anyhow, Clay seemed not to have heard. He was looking out over the lawn with an expression that might have been fear or hatred or both. Someone else was standing near where he had been standing earlier, but outside the light of the streetlamp. "Who's that?" asked Michael. On receiving no answer, he looked back. The coach was gone, as if the figure had scared him off.

From him Michael had gained some of the facts he had set out to. Some, not all. But the biggest revelation had been the one he had not sought, the one concerning his own origin. "Wouldn't you know?" he said. "I've been searching for somebody who doesn't exist." And now the obvious next question struck him: "If I never had a father, how'd I get here?"

The figure on the lawn was walking toward him. Michael now recognized who he was, and recognized his beige Rover, which was parked on the street behind. Michael did not believe it had been there before. And he did not believe the sheriff was the man he had seen; that one had been tall, like—like who? Michael could not remember. However, Valenti made him uncomfortable enough, showing up so late, and outside his normal shift. "Got a report of a fire on the lawn," he explained. "Thought I better check it out."

It might even have been true. "No fire here."

"No. But _you_ are." Valenti was too tired to be patient. "Listen, I know something's going on." He had picked up hints of it from Topolsky and Wiley. "It feels like..." _Like Nasedo_, he wanted to say. "Like trouble," he substituted. "Bad trouble. Are you part of it? Or are you just an innocent bystander?"

Michael had been through too much to be intimidated so easily. "To answer that, I'd have to know what it is."

"I think you already do. And I think you better tell me."

Michael gave a shrug. "Sorry."

"You will be if it ends up hurting somebody close to you. Like Maria."

"Your sources missed the latest. We're a dead item."

"Too bad. Seems to me she was a girl worth hanging on to." _Great_, thought Michael, _now I'm getting dating advice from the sheriff._ "There has to be somebody in town you care about."

"Yeah, me," he shot back. "That's as much as I can handle right now." He smiled in a way designed to provoke. "Aren't you gonna offer me a ride? It's after curfew, you know."

Valenti let the attitude pass; with kids, sometimes you had to. "Son," he said (it was the last thing he said before returning to the Rover), "you better hope it's not later than that."

Until Valenti had mentioned her, Michael had forgotten entirely about Maria (his night's excursions had succeeded in that purpose at least). But she had not forgotten about him. In fact, she had failed so thoroughly in her efforts to put him out of her mind that he was practically the only thing in it. She had also failed to find any sleep, and the clashing floral patterns on her curtains and bedspreads had been of no help. How could she efface his image from her mind just like that? He was the only boy she had ever dated who looked good in a black leather jacket (the original of which she privately believed to be a piece of alien technology appropriated by humans); he had other positive attributes as well, but that was the one she kept returning to. She hoped against hope that he was thinking of her too.

But Michael's mind was still on the Stones. He stopped by his apartment just long enough to pick them up. "You never were his," he told them. "Somebody made a mistake there. And he's not going to have you either. I'll put you in a place where he'll never look." He laughed to think that all night long, law officers had been chauffeuring him home and ordering him to stay put, and he had been disregarding them and going right out again.

This time he ended up at West Ros, by the big school sign at the top of the steps. He dangled the sack over his head and shouted into space. "Hey, Nasty, you still want these? Then come and get 'em!" He did not expect an answer and received none. "Good. You just try showing your face here again—any one of them."

He knelt and thrust his hand, with the sack still in it, into the sign's solid cement base, which melted before him as he penetrated to its heart. Then he let go of the sack and withdrew his hand. The cement re-hardened after it, encasing what he had left behind. He read again the motto in front of him: "Pathway to Excellence and Integrity." "I could use a pathway about now," he said. Then he left for home, or the closest approximation he had been able to achieve so far in his life.

What he had not seen when he had deposited the sack, and could not see now, was that inside it the Stones were glowing a bright blue.

**Episode 1.17X**

**The Grunewald Paradigm**

Night had fallen, but the doctor could not see it, since his lab had no windows.

He slid open a drawer of the file cabinet and removed a creased brown folder, carried it to a lab table, and laid it open, exposing the thick sheaf of browned papers inside. The one on top was a medical form, a blood analysis report; attached to it was the photo of a small boy. The report was typewritten, but in the margin the doctor had penciled a supplemental note: "Non-human—further tests indicated."

As yet Liz knew nothing of the report or the file that contained it, and so for her the arrival of this day was cause for unalloyed rejoicing. It was the day of her release. She got up, bathed, and dressed before dawn and was tiptoeing downstairs quietly (as she thought) when a voice from the stairhead startled her. "Going some place, are we?"

Liz looked up. "Mom! Good morning." Her mother made a noise which was, strictly speaking, incomprehensible but might have been interpreted (and was, by Liz) as "'morning." She had her robe pulled around her, and she looked tired—but not only on account of the hour.

"Yeah," said Liz, "Max is picking me up. We made a date to watch the sunrise together."

"Romantic," Nancy said drily.

"To celebrate the end of my being grounded," Liz volunteered, feeling for some reason the need to explain further.

"Which Max was responsible for in the first place. I hope you haven't lost sight of that."

"But that—he didn't—it was consensual."

She immediately regretted the choice of word. Her mother assumed that straight-laced pose that made Liz cringe, and all the more because it was never fully convincing. "_What_ was consensual?" she asked. "Liz, how far has this gone?"

Liz tightened all over—except in her eyes, where the ire of traduced virtue could be seen simmering. "Mom," she said, "if you really knew me you wouldn't have to ask." She clattered down the rest of the stairs, no longer even trying to be quiet.

"Liz, I'm sorry!" And she was, truly. But it was too late: her daughter was out the door that opened onto the side alley.

Sighing, Nancy returned to her bedroom and lifted a curtain to look down onto Main Street, where Max was waiting, with his motor running. She understood his appeal to her daughter; he was a good-looking kid. She watched somewhat enviously as Liz climbed in beside him and gave him a joyful hug of reconciliation, long deferred and now come to pass. After they disengaged, Max pulled out, cut a U, and sped off down the otherwise vacant street.

Nancy's husband sat up in bed. "Was that Lizzie I heard leaving? Where's she going at this hour?"

"To see the sunrise with her boyfriend."

"That Max kid?" He shook his head. "Typical adolescent goofiness."

"First love, Jeff. You remember what that was like." He looked blank. "No, of course not. How silly of me."

"Well, he'd better get her back in time for her shift. She's got responsibilities, you know."

"And _then_ we tell her?"

Jeff looked like a trapped rabbit. "Well, sure we do, Nance. Absolutely. But we don't want to rush into—it's one of those things that has to be done the right way."

Nancy had had enough of waiting, and of hearing good reasons for it; there always seemed to be an abundance of them. She shut her eyes for a moment and then left for the kitchen, to brew herself a pot of strong coffee. Jeff stayed in bed a long time, regretting a few oversights of the recent (and not so recent) past, and trying to motivate himself to get up.

Outside the city limits, Max and Liz found themselves a comfortable seat at the edge of a low bluff with an unobstructed view of the eastern sky. The sun had not yet appeared. In its absence they watched the stars, which had already begun to fade as the sky gave the first promise of day.

Liz snuggled close under Max's chin. "We're ba-ack," she crooned happily. He bent to kiss her hair. At the same time as her senses were indulging the pleasure, her mind (which was never inactive for long) was running on a separate track. "Max?" she said. "You told me you can't shape-shift. But could you shape-shift someone else? The same way you change other things?"

"Never tried. Doubt it."

"What about changing part of someone? Like if I wanted, oh, a little more of this or a little less of that?"

He chuckled. "Do I get a say on which this and that?"

"Max, I'm serious. What are the limits on what you can change and what you can't?"

Max could tell this was one of those times she would not quit. He gave up nuzzling her for the moment to frame a reply. "We don't know. We haven't investigated. It's probably high time we did, but Isabel and Michael—" He checked himself. With Liz, he had to keep remembering not to volunteer information unthinkingly. "Why do you ask?"

"It's a natural question, isn't it?"

He supposed that for her it was. "Since you're curious, some day I'll take you to where we came from, and then you can see for yourself."

Liz noticed he had dropped the subject, but she allowed him to, since this interested her just as much. "And where is that, exactly?" she asked.

Max pointed toward the V shape overhead. "In the vicinity of Aries."

"_One_ of its vicinities, you mean." The correction came out automatically. "But, Max, do you have any idea of the time that would be required for a trip of that magnitude? Given the propulsion systems currently in existence—"

Max was smiling. "You romantic, you."

"I'm romantic! But, I mean, realistically—"

"Did you talk to Kyle like this when you two were dating?"

Liz thought about it. "No, not for long. His face would get this kind of waxy look—" She glanced at him. "That's the one!"

Max adjusted his expression. "All men are brothers."

"Wait a minute." She had just then processed what she had heard a moment before. "_Aries?_ Max, that isn't Aries."

"Sure it is. Michael said it was." This was probably the first time he had cited Michael as an authority on any subject.

"I don't care." She pointed to a spot nearer the horizon. "_That's_ Aries—or that's where it was." Those stars had now disappeared, as had most of the others. "It's a diagonal arc." She stared up at the V, which was still shining out brightly. "I don't know what that is. It's not even supposed to be there."

"But it is," Max pointed out.

"If it were a new star cluster, it would have been in the news. And Mr. Seligman would have mentioned it in class."

Max knew from experience that she could go on indefinitely. "Liz, it doesn't affect us. Let's continue testing our propulsion systems." He began to plant another kiss, but she gently restrained him, with a nod eastward. "What?" Max asked.

"What we came to see. The sunrise."

Max gave it a second's attention. "Yeah, pretty," he said, and then he resumed his advance.

Liz rose. "Sorry, have to get to work."

Max rose after her with a grunt. "Liz, come on. You work for your dad. I'm sure he'd cut you some slack."

"Not where you're concerned. He thinks you're a bad influence on me."

"Do you agree with him?"

"Why else would I be here?" But as she gazed into his eyes she consciously held herself back. If she were not careful, she would lose herself in them—or lose the power to reason, which amounted to the same thing. She allowed him one more kiss, but that was it.

"Then after work?"

"Have to finish my science fair project. And you too, right?"

"Done." He smiled an apology. "Things like that go faster for us."

Throughout her morning shift Liz was still thinking about him, and about herself with him, but her thoughts were not romantic ones. As often happened when she was out of his presence, logic reasserted itself, and sparked a chain of observations, inductions, and hypotheses which gave form to fears she had entertained since the beginning of their acquaintance.

During a rare but welcome lull in the morning's activity, she slow few minutes, she resorted to her fellow server and best friend for advice or, at least, audience. "You think it's safe, what we're doing?" she asked.

"Before the regulars have had their coffee?" said Maria. "Touch and go there."

"No, having these—close encounters we're having. Of the alien-slash-human variety."

"Oh. Yeah." The crush of recent disappointment was evident in her tone.

But Liz was listening only to herself. "Because how much do we know about their physiology? Nothing! I mean, not to be gross or anything, but suppose Michael's—suppose his—"

"Would you stop?" said Maria. Liz had already done so, of her own volition, and was blushing for what she had not said. But Maria continued anyway, in a louder voice. "It's not something I'll ever have to worry about, okay?" Then she stamped off to the back room, leaving Liz—and those patrons close enough to hear—surprised at the heat of her outburst. Later in the day Liz tried to elicit the reason for it, but Maria would say no more.

She carried her silence into the school week, so that for Liz class was relaxing by comparison. After her last period Monday, she retired, as she often did, to the biology lab, where she would unwind by examining some find of hers under the microscope. This afternoon it was a crystal she had left over from her science fair project, and in which she had observed anomalies she had been unable to account for. So thorough was her concentration on it that she did not register the voice addressing her by name, a little more emphatically each time. At last a hand tapped her on the shoulder.

With a start, Liz looked up. Her biology teacher was standing over her. "Sorry, I didn't want to distract you. I tried to get your attention, but apparently you didn't hear."

"No, I was looking into my crystal." She heard her own words. "That sounded strange, didn't it?"

Ms. Quivers smiled understandingly. "Not to me. I know what it is to be caught up in your lab work. If things had gone the way I'd hoped..." She sighed. "But I didn't have the gift."

"What gift is that?"

"The one you have. Limitless curiosity—"

"Everybody has that, don't they?"

"At birth," Ms. Quivers replied. "Only most of us lose it as we get older. You haven't. Coupled with which, you have originality of mind. An unbeatable combination. Which is the reason"—she handed Liz an application form—"that I've nominated you to represent West Ros in the national science bowl."

"Isn't that only for seniors?"

"It's for the most able students. In biology, that's you. Will you do it?"

"Are you kidding?" But she immediately saw a conflict. "How much time does it take to prepare? Because, you know, my family has a restaurant and we're all expected to do our share."

"The school can work around that. And most of the faculty are good about easing up on assignments in the weeks just before. But you'll have to apply yourself. Beware of distractions."

"Liz?"

Both looked toward the doors. "Max!" Liz exclaimed. "I forgot I was supposed to meet you." He smiled wanly. She was aware that she owed him an apology, but she did not offer one; the awareness was swallowed up in an absorbing but impersonal curiosity that she had transferred, without knowing it, from the crystal to him—as if she were observing _him_ through the microscope.

She was not smiling at him, and neither was Ms. Quivers, though for a different reason. Max shifted his feet nervously as Liz began to collect her things. "Don't forget about tomorrow." Ms. Quivers reminded her, pointing to the notice she had written in a corner of the chalkboard. "You're signed up as a monitor."

"Oh, right. 7:30 a.m."

"Do your other teachers know?"

"I showed them my pass." Then Liz had one of her perennial bright ideas. "Hey, Max could be one too. I could use some help."

"We have all the volunteers we can use. Ask one of them."

"Sure, I just thought—"

"_No_, Liz."

Liz felt rebuked, but did not quite know why. "See you tomorrow, then."

"And don't forget to fill out the application."

Liz gave a nod as she left while Max held the door for her. He considered telling Ms. Quivers goodbye, but shrugged it off as wasted effort. "I don't think she likes me much," he said, as soon as he was sure the two of them were out of her hearing. "Or doesn't like me being with you."

"She's given you A's on every test, hasn't she?"

"She had to. I got the answers right." This was met with silence; Liz seemed to be preoccupied with some other problem. So Max changed the subject to what had been worrying him all afternoon. "Have you seen Michael lately?"

He had to ask a second time before he got an answer, if one could call it an answer. "You haven't?"

"Not since this morning."

"You don't think that the coach—"

"No, he's gone. All his classes have been reassigned. I was expecting Michael to be happy about it, but he's not. He seems—more confused than usual."

"I think something happened between him and Maria."

"Ah. That explains why he's off humans at the moment. _I_, however..." He leaned into her. To his surprise, she shied away. "Oh, so now you're off aliens?"

Again she seemed not to hear the question. "Max, how much do you know about your body?"

This was a response he had not expected. Maybe the girls' coach had been giving them one of those talks about their bodies. "Sorry, what?"

"I mean, you've never had a thorough physical, have you?" She answered herself. "Stupid question. Because if you had—"

"Once, at the orphanage. Both of us."

"Did they find out about—? You know."

"Apparently not. Anyway, nothing came of it. The doctor left soon after that."

"So we have no reliable data on your physiological processes."

Max smiled. "Any particular process you're interested in?"

He took another bob at her; she evaded him again. "Max, I'm—"

"Serious, I know. But we've been apart for so long. I'm feeling incredibly—affectionate. Thought you would be too."

And so she would have been, if not for the mental cold showers she had been imposing on herself. "Of course," she said, not sounding affectionate at all. "But first we should make sure that we're—that our..." Her cheeks reddened.

"Bodies?" Max offered.

"Bodies," Liz agreed, "yes. That they're..." She searched for another word than the only one that occurred to her.

Max came to her aid again. "Physically compatible?" She nodded soberly. "Liz, you and I have been over this. I'm completely human—well, almost."

"_Almost_," she repeated significantly. "And how do we know that for sure?"

"I can feel it."

"People feel lots of things, Max. No one's done a comprehensive analysis. If your blood is abnormal, there are bound to be other abnormalities—in the circulation system, the respiratory system... These factors don't exist in isolation." She sighed wistfully. "Wish I could study _you_ in biology lab."

"Cut me up, you mean?"

"Of course not. You can't dissect someone until they're dead." The fact set her pondering. "Which poses a serious obstacle to research because—"

"Liz!" Max waved her back. "You're not talking to _me_ now."

"What? No, sorry." But eight tenths of her mind was still fixed on the research dilemma.

"You do still want my help tomorrow morning? To carry in your science project?"

This temporarily reclaimed her attention. "You're not backing out now?"

"No, just reminding you that you'll need me in one piece. In case you're harboring plans to the contrary."

"Funny man." She punched his arm lightly. Then she returned to her pondering, and Max left her to it.

The next morning the two of them, along with every other student who was taking science (which is to say, nearly every student), descended on the school gym bearing the fruits of their labors—some whole, some in separate pieces to be assembled on site. From the entrance to the rear ran long rows of folding tables for the exhibits; at the head of each row was stationed a monitor, like Liz, to point the entrants to the proper sections and the available tables. Each monitor wore a chest tag that identified him or her by subject; Liz's read "Biology."

Upon arriving, she searched the rows for a sign to match her own. Max followed with a cardboard box labeled as containing coffee creamer (Liz had pirated it away from the restaurant). It was so large that as he entered the aisle he could not help bumping corners with another bearer, this one in the employment of Pam Troy. "Sorry, Kyle," said Max.

Kyle's eyes moved from Max's burden to his own. "Look at us," he said. "A pair of mindless slaves at the mercy of hot-looking babes."

Max's lips thinned in disapproval. "I don't know that I'd put it exactly like that."

"Max!" called Liz. "Down here!"

"Kyle!" called Pam. "Down here!"

Kyle grinned, as if his point were proven, and the two boys proceeded down the aisle, Kyle taking the lead, to the tables the girls had picked out. These were close enough to each other so that as Liz was assembling her exhibit she heard Pam complain, "God, I hate this science stuff. It's so—scientific." Kyle flashed Liz a wry smile, of a kind she remembered from their months of dating. At his best, he was funny to be with; she just wished he were not so..._guy_-like.

Max had left to fetch his own project from the Jeep. As Liz returned to setting up her own, she was sidetracked again, this time by a voice in the next aisle over. She recognized it as belonging to the astronomy teacher. "What did I stress to you in class repeatedly?" he was saying. "That I'm looking for real science, not pseudo-science. No UFOs, no alien abductions, no X files—"

"But, Mr. Seligman, I thought—" a smaller voice began.

"You _didn't_ think, Nicky. That's your problem. You realize if the papers got hold of this I'd be a laughing stock to science teachers nationwide? 'Well, he's from Roswell. What do you expect?' You've earned yourself a big fat F today. Now get this tabloid garbage out of here." He left with his head down, as if to shun being seen, so he was not looking where he was going, and ran into Liz, who had stepped out into the cross-aisle to speak to him. Mr. Seligman was much flustered by the encounter. "Liz! Oh, dear! My profound apologies. I can't imagine where my head was. Did I hurt you?"

His embarrassment spread to her, as embarrassment had a way of doing, but Liz pulled them both out of it by broaching the subject she had wanted to consult him about. "So what about this new star cluster?" she said brightly.

"New star cluster? What new star cluster?"

"The one shaped like a V. It's at the zenith right now."

"Not in this hemisphere, it isn't."

"But you must have seen it!" Yet even as she said so, she knew otherwise.

"Ms. Parker, I watch the sky faithfully every night, and I can assure you, if any new object had manifested itself I'd be the first to be aware of it. Whatever you thought you saw, trust me, it was definitely not stars."

He went on, leaving Liz more mystified than before. Was it possible the stars—no, not stars, seeming stars—manifested themselves only to teens through some hormonal hypertrophy of the senses? But Mr. Seligman would have dismissed this as pseudo-science too.

Her eye lit on the exhibit he had condemned. Curiosity, and three or four steps, brought her to a closer view of it. The heading froze her where she stood. "Space Child," it read, "Where Are You Now?" Underneath were arranged some photos and documents on midnight-blue posterboard. Liz started forward to examine them.

Almost at once a girl interposed herself—a tall, droopy-lidded girl clutching an exhibit on a wooden base, one of whose corners kept threatening to stab Liz in the eye. "You the monitor for biology?" she asked. "The guy over there"—she gestured vaguely—"said you were." Liz pointed to her tag. "Where's this go?" asked the girl. Even as Liz led the way, she could not help glancing back at the thing she wanted to examine. After finding a space for the girl's exhibit, she started back in that direction.

But the girl was not ready to let her go. "Should it have my name on it?" she asked.

"And your teacher's." Liz pointed to the next exhibit over. "That's the format you should follow." She tried to leave again.

"You got a marker?"

"Sorry, no."

"You're the monitor and you don't got a marker?"

"Ask at the front table."

"Where's that?"

"Where my finger's pointing." She left the girl only partially comprehending, but had concluded that this was her everyday state, beyond her own power to cure. She headed back toward the space-child exhibit, almost frantic by now to see what was in it.

—or had been in it: the exhibit was gone, and the space it had occupied was empty. Peering around, Liz spied it tucked under the arm of a tall, thin boy, presumably its creator, heading for the hall door, where the big trash barrel was located. She hared after him, dodging other students with armloads of their own, and caught him up at the barrel just as he was about to consign his creation to its depths.

"Don't!" Liz shouted.

The boy halted, staring at her. "Huh? Why not?"

Liz realized she knew him, a little. "Nicky—Grunewald, right? You're one of the Whits, Alex's band. We met in his garage—or somebody's garage."

"Yeah, garage is where this should have stayed too." He whacked it a hard one. "Bought me an F. Why shouldn't I dump it?"

Liz tried extemporizing, a skill at which she had never been adept. "Sorry, my mistake. I thought you had mine."

Nicky had the board positioned so she could now see it clearly: the items on it included a photo of the 1947 crash site, a photograph of a child's tracks in the desert, a blood analysis with the subject's name blacked out and the penciled note "Non-human—further tests indicated"... "Oh, my God," Liz blurted out.

Nicky took it as another slam. "This was my dad's idea, you know. How many times have I told people, you're right, he _is_ nuts? And the one time I go along with him... I musta been nuts myself."

"He gave you these things?"

"They're just copies. The originals are in his files."

"Where did he get them?"

She was conscious that she had no business asking, but Nicky seemed willing to answer. "Where he used to work. At the old county orphanage." Liz's worry mushroomed into alarm; she knew that was where Max and Isabel had been taken after they were found wandering in the desert. "He thought a few of the kids were—well, what it says there," Nicky continued. "He won't tell me the details, so I don't ask. But he's been collecting that stuff ever since."

"Does he use it in his lectures? I know he teaches at the community college."

"Nah, nah, that's a whole other thing. This is his—hobby, I guess you'd call it. _He_ calls it research. Every night he disappears into his lab and I don't see him till the next morning."

"He has his own lab?" Her interest on Max's behalf had suddenly merged into a wider stream—and, it must be admitted, a stronger one.

"Used to be a summerhouse, but he had it converted over. Why?"

"Oh, I'm quite the lab rat. What kind of research does he do?"

"Not exactly sure. Blood tests?" Liz felt her heart take a hop. "You'd have to ask him yourself. Doesn't mean anything to me—except an F on this project."

To a straight-A student like Liz, F was never an acceptable option. "Why don't you do another one? It'll be marked down a grade for being late, but—"

"That would take forever."

"Not if I helped you. I could come over tonight."

"But you're in biology." He pointed at her button. "This is astronomy."

Liz began to suspect him of lacking in imagination somewhat. "I'm also interested in other worlds. In fact, I've done some—field work in that area."

Nicky hunted for the catch. "Well, okay. I mean, thanks—I guess."

"But I want a favor in return from you."

His guard went up; so this was it. "Yeah, what?" he asked warily.

"I want you to introduce me to your father."

"Is that all? Why would you want to meet him for?"

"Like you said." Liz smiled. "To ask him myself."

Just then she spied Max approaching and quickly doubled over the posterboard so that only the bare side showed. "Stash this in your locker," she ordered Nicky.

"Aw, what's the point?" He stuffed it into the barrel with a vengeance as Liz watched, unable to stop him or, after he left, to retrieve it herself—because there was Max.

Fortunately he had been paying no attention. "Excuse me, Ms. Monitor?" He held out the box containing his exhibit, which concerned rabbit farming. (Liz had no idea what had led him to choose the subject; like Nicky with his father, she had chosen not to ask.) "I need you to put me in my place," he said. Liz managed a weak smile. Sometimes Max's humor was so—Max-y. As she led him to a table she cast an eye back at the discarded posterboard. She had to finish reading that blood analysis.

With the science fair continuing all day, she was unable to get to it again until the late evening. She had persuaded Alex into being her wheel man, for which purpose he had borrowed his father's red Volvo. They found the doors to the building locked as expected, but Liz had a master key. Alex scowled as she used it. "Should you really be doing this?" he asked.

"Ms. Quivers loaned me the key. I sort of forgot to give it back."

"Yes, one sees you _can_ do it. The question on the table is—"

"Do you know a better way to get in?" Alex, who believed she was still missing the point, fell silent.

Silent was the hall also, except for a loud rumble which Alex ascribed hopefully to the air conditioning. When Liz opened the door to the gym, she saw the trash barrel where it had been—but empty. "S-word," she said with feeling as she shut the door back.

Alex raised an eyebrow. "Liz, you shock me." Then the rumble came again, this time from around the corner, where the hall extended to the right. The two of them went to look. They saw no one there, but halfway down the hall an object was sitting on the floor outside the janitor's closet. Liz gave a little cry. "Is that it?" asked Alex. She nodded. He quickly fetched it and brought it back. "Now let's get the hell out of here."

One of the office doors swung open to discharge a canvas trash cart—the source of the rumble they had heard, and now heard again—and behind it emerged the janitor called Pete, whom Michael and Maria had seen and failed to recognize on the Saturday before. Seeing the object in Alex's hands, he smiled. "You came for it, then. Knew someone would."

"Did you?" Alex asked uncertainly.

"That's why I laid it aside."

Alex cocked his head at Liz, and they started out. Then she remembered her manners and looked back to say, "Thank you." Pete nodded and smiled again.

Not until they reached the steps did she stop to look at the exhibit. "Oh, no!" she cried. "The blood analysis is missing! We have to go find it." She started back.

"Whoa there! Where would you look?"

"We could ask the janitor."

"Mr. Creepy? He might have taken it himself."

"Somebody did. But who else—" She did not have to finish the thought. "Nasedo!"

"Liz, the fact to focus on is, it's not here. Come on, before the security guard finds us"—he knew there was always one around—"and asks what we're doing here."

"We'll tell him we're picking up our science project."

"Oh, uh-huh?" He pointed to the name. "Which one of us will be Nicky?"

"Okay," she admitted, dragging out the word reluctantly, and with her eyes still on the gym building all the while. On returning them to the front, she found Alex had not waited for her vote; he was halfway down the steps, and carrying with him what they had come there to collect. Liz hurried down the steps after him.

Once home, he left her in the garage examining their recovery by a work table lamp while he went to fetch something from the house. A few minutes later he returned through the connecting door. "I wanted to show you this," he said. He had a magazine in his hand, and he held it up for her to see.

The title of it was _UFO Enquirer._ The cover showed a bulbous-headed extraterrestrial pawing a scantily clad Earth girl, in illustration of the feature article "Earth—Alien Spawning Ground?" Liz showed her annoyance at being distracted from the business at hand by what Mr. Seligman had termed "tabloid garbage." "Your dad actually reads this stuff?" she said.

"You should see his den. Lined with it. But you're missing the important part." He pointed out the name that was attached to the article: Dr. Otto Grunewald. Liz's eyes widened. Instantly she snatched the magazine out of his hand and began riffling through it. "Obviously a crackpot," Alex commented.

Liz skimmed the first part of the article. "I'm not so sure. Sounds like he knows his facts."

"Facts?"

Liz looked up. "One fact, he's definitely cognizant of. The date on that blood analysis that's missing was the day after Max's birthday."

"So he—knows when Max was born?"

"Oh, nobody knows when Max was born. His 'birthday,' so-called, is the date he was admitted to the orphanage."

Alex puzzled over this. "Then Isabel's birthday should be the same, yes?"

"It was. Mr. Evans had it changed to her date of adoption so she could have a birthday of her own. But the _point_"—occasionally Alex tended to miss the point of things, and she had to spell it out for him—"is that Max was the child in that display. Which was Dr. Grunewald's idea. He _knows_ about him, and about Isabel." She slapped the magazine shut. "I need to borrow this."

"Nothing doing! If my dad notices it's gone—"

"He won't miss just one." She rolled it up and stuffed it into her purse.

Alex questioned both the assertion and the likelihood of the magazine's returning to him in something like its present condition. "Careful with that! It's collectible."

Liz stood and slung the purse over her shoulder. "Look, Alex, Max doesn't know any of this. Please don't say anything to him or to Isabel."

"I would think it concerns them most."

"It does, yeah. But I—I need to gather more data first." Alex looked doubtful. He did not like the idea of withholding such news from them, especially from Isabel, and a hunch informed him that the reason Liz had given for having to do so was not the only one, or the main one. "Please, Alex," she said. "For me?" This nearly always worked with him, and so it did now; finally he nodded. But he still looked doubtful.

When Liz knocked at the Grunewalds' door that evening, it was Nicky who answered it. He was obviously pleased to see her there. "You came!" he said.

"We kind of arranged it," she reminded him.

"You bet. Come on in!"

Liz had never before seen the inside of his house, only the garage, and it interested her as houses always did, her family being without one of its own. This one must have been handsome originally, but it was past due for a fixing-up; the walls needed patching and repainting, and the carpet— She looked back at Nicky to find him grinning at her in a way that made her slightly uncomfortable. "So what do we have to do?" he asked.

Liz had an answer prepared. "You can start by introducing me to your father."

Nicky led her through the house and the yard to an outbuilding at the rear. He leaned on the heavy fire door, pushed it open, and called in. "Dad?"

Steps led down into a long white-walled room, immaculately kept, in sharp contrast to the main house. Liz could not help being impressed. The room contained everything a well-appointed lab ought to have: sinks, counters, tables, racks, and an array of experimental equipment, plus a refrigerator and a freezer. It also looked as though at one time it might have doubled as a doctor's office: one corner was taken up with an examining table and a cabinet of medical supplies.

"Yes?" said a voice behind them, close enough to make her start. She turned to stare into a face older and gentler than she had imagined, though the suddenness of its appearance had momentarily wiped her preconceptions from her mind.

"Dad," said Nicky, "this is Liz. The girl I told you about."

"Charmed." Dr. Grunewald extended his hand.

Liz took it. "Good to meet you." There followed an awkward silence, and she did not hesitate to jump into it. "Would you mind if I asked you a few questions about your research?" She turned to Nicky. "This'll only take a few minutes."

"Sure, go ahead." Liz stared at him until he realized she was waiting for something more from him. "Oh, right, I get it. I'll just..." He pointed vaguely toward the house and backed out with as much grace as he could muster for his guest's benefit.

"Please shut the—" his father began, but too late, and he went to shut it himself. "Well," he said, returning to her, "and what is it you wish to know of me?" His speech had retained, to a degree, the flavor of his native tongue.

"Nicky tells me you're investigating—" She hazarded a guess. "Blood conditions?"

Grunewald widened his eyes. "And this interests you?"

"Oh, I'm very heavily into blood." She did not like the sound of this. "I mean, the whole field of microbiology, I find absolutely fascinating. It's going to be my career, you know."

"With a specialization in hematology?"

"Oh, that's definitely an area of interest. Of course, by the time I'm through with college, I'll know where the new ground's being broken, and I'll have a better idea of the specific course I intend to pursue."

Grunewald could not suppress a smile. "You sound as if you were applying for employment."

Liz sighed. "I know, it's how I talk." But that gave her an idea. "Though, since you mention it, if you did need somebody to help out here, it'd be great experience for me. If you needed somebody. To help out. Here."

The doctor was studying her, rather as she had studied Max the previous day, like a specimen under the microscope. When he was done, he clapped his hands together, startling her. "What an excellent suggestion," he said. "When can you start?"

"Right away!" Then she remembered. "But not tonight. I'm helping Nicky do a new science fair project. His first one—"

"Yes, I heard about that. My fault, I'm afraid." His eyes lit up. "But wait!" He withdrew to a closet at the rear and rummaged there while Liz, taking his command literally, waited where she was. Finally Grunewald brought out what looked like a shelf with things attached. "Proof one should never toss anything away, eh? I built this myself when I was in school." He carried it to one of the counters and pointed to a paper-towel dispenser over the sink. "Fetch me a brace of those, will you?"

Once thus equipped, he proceeded to wipe the dust from the object while Liz watched; he did not ask her to help, and so she had plenty of time to examine the object closely. It was a frame fashioned from what might have been coat-hanger wire, with three small balls stuck to the ends; two of them could be swiveled in and out of alignment with the third. A backboard provided supporting text and diagrams. "A lunar eclipse in miniature," Grunewald explained. "And by happy coincidence, another is due next month—revise these dates and, voila! What do you think of that?"

Liz was thinking that it would save her and Nicky an RV-load of work, but she did not like to say so. "I'm sure this will make Nicky very happy."

"And restore me to his good graces perhaps. After today he'll never again take my work seriously." He paused deliberately. "Ah, but do you, I wonder?"

The question took Liz off guard, as Grunewald must have intended; as she spoke he appeared to be studying her reactions. "I don't really know that much about it," she began. Then she realized that this was her big chance and she had to take it, even if it meant losing the place she had just gained. "Except—well, except for this." Her heart was in her throat as she pulled out the magazine and unrolled it to show to him.

Rather than angry, he seemed somewhat embarrassed. "Ah, yes, well. Have you read it?"

"Yeah," Liz admitted. "Well, some of it."

"Then you will be aware that it's nonsense. Not _utter_ nonsense—I take care to propose nothing that may not be true. However, on the other side, there's little to say that it _is_. The merest speculation." He sighed. "Not that they care, of course." He walked over to a picture on the wall, a blow-up of himself at a lectern on an outdoor stage with a multitude gathered around him. "_This_is my readership—the true believers, ready to soar on any wind of affirmation that blows their way. Yet, say what you will of them, they're the ones who keep the flame alive. Therefore it is to them that I address myself—today. One day it will be otherwise, and then..." He noticed Liz move closer to the photo for a better look. "Something in it interests you?"

She pointed to one of the multitude, a blonde girl in her teens, with pretty but angular features. "I could swear I've seen her before."

"You probably have. That was taken near here, at a convocation held to mark the fortieth anniversary of the—celebrated event. You'd have been a child then."

"I remember the crowds. And..."

"What?"

"It sounds silly. I remember feeling expectant. Excited and expectant. Not about the event, but something else." She laughed. "Figure that one out."

Grunewald tapped his lip. "I should need more data than is presently available."

This brought Max to her mind again. "Yeah, that's just the problem."

"Indeed," the doctor concurred. He too seemed to speaking with a meaning of his own. The two of them studied the picture together.

By the time she and Nicky had finished retouching the planetary model and he drove her back home, the cafe was closed, but Max was standing in the alley at the side door. Liz was less happy to see him than she knew she should be, but why, she could not say. "Who was that?" he asked her, as Nicky zoomed off.

"No one." She did not want him to know about Dr. Grunewald; not yet.

"Funny, it looked like someone." Liz did not reply. "I've been waiting for you. Where you been all this time?"

"I'm working on a—biology project. I'll tell you all about it later. When my findings are conclusive."

"Sounds mysterious." He tried to hug her, but she dodged him. "Something the matter?"

Liz did not know, and did not want to think about it just then. "Tired, is all. 'night." She let herself in with her key and then shut the door between them; shut Max out. He left feeling puzzled and obscurely guilty.

Before he reached the end of the block, a new worry had displaced that one. A figure that looked somehow familiar ran out in front of him with a shout—"Save me, space guy!"—and then out into the street, into the path of an oncoming Jaguar. Behind him a woman screamed. Only when Max saw who she was did he recognize the man. There was no time to prevent the collision—but he had to do something. With a quick power burst, he changed the Jag's front end—or as much as he had time for, starting at the grill and working back—to a softer metal. Combined with the swerve the driver executed at the last minute, it was enough to cushion the impact. The car hit Larry askance and propelled him to the side, but not hard enough to cripple or kill him.

The driver had no idea of what had happened, and chose not to stick around and find out. Max changed the Jaguar back to normal as it sped away. Then he ran over and knelt beside Larry.

Jen had preceded him. "Are you hurt?" she asked.

He sat up with a groan. "Huh! What do you think?"

"What were you trying to do?" asked Max.

"I thought you'd stop the car. Like last time."

"Are you crazy? Nobody can do that."

Larry rubbed his neck. "Guess not."

"And even if—" Max gave up. "Oh, you're an idiot."

"See, Larry?" said Jen. "It's not just me." She helped him onto his feet.

"Can you walk?" asked Max.

Larry took an exploratory step. "Ow! But yeah." He pointed after the driver. "That guy's a public menace! Did you get his license?"

For Max, that tore it. "You ran out in front of him! There's no way he could have kept from—" He curtailed the thought when he realized where it was heading. But Jen had heard enough to realize the same thing, and she was now staring hard at him. "Anyway," he concluded, "you're lucky to be alive."

"More than lucky, I'd say," Jen observed.

Her stare was making him uncomfortable. "Maybe you ought to take him to emergency," he suggested, "just in case."

"No doctors!" Larry decreed. "Some of them are in league with—" He stopped himself. "Okay, no more," he told Jen. "Promise."

But she seemed strangely less resolute than she had been. "We'll go home. I'll run you a hot bath." She gave Max a last, undecided glance as she helped her husband off.

If Liz had heard the noise of the accident, she did not attend to it, being, at the moment, too much caught up in family matters. She had just shut the door on Max and was starting upstairs when her mother's voice reached her from the living room. "You still haven't told her?"

Then her father's. "I thought we agreed we'd do it together."

"Yes, on Sunday. What happened to that?"

"She was gone half the day—who knows where?" This was an exaggeration, as he himself knew.

"And when she was here, where were you?" Silence was his only reply. "We have to let her know. It affects her more than anybody."

"As it should."

"Jeff! Shame on you!"

"Why? Isn't she the reason you're leaving?"

Liz's breath caught in her throat. She felt as if a vise were pressing on her head, and on her heart. "That's not true," said her mother, echoing Liz's own unspoken thought.

"It's not another man—or so you say. What else could it be? Hasn't our whole life these past sixteen years been centered on her? We've been so busy keeping her highness happy—Liz!"

She was now at the archway, staring into the room. She had never noticed before how much it resembled a prison cell on its bricked side. Half one thing, half another—just like her parents. She stood huddled and forlorn, like a street urchin in the rain. But only her cheeks were wet. "Go ahead, talk," she said. "About how I'm responsible for breaking up our family."

"Your father didn't mean that," her mother said quickly.

His face wore exactly the look that Liz had foreseen it would. "Lizzie, honey—"

"If I'd died that day the way I was supposed to, none of this would have happened."

"Liz!"

"And as for the highness thing—_you_ put that on me. It wasn't something _I_ wanted." She ran to her room; a second later they heard the door slam.

"Well, thank you, Jeff," said Nancy. "For telling her."

After a half hour or so he came knocking at her door, but she did not answer. He tried the knob, but it was locked. He called in to her. "Lizzie? Princess?"

"Don't call me that!" he heard from the other side. "Don't call me that ever again!" The voice was muffled by layers of bedcovers—the means closest at hand to isolate herself from everyone and everything.

She did not mention the impending divorce at school the next day; in fact, she hardly spoke to anyone the whole morning. After third period she stopped by her locker and descried Maria at hers, looking almost as unhappy as Liz felt, and keeping her distance. Liz, who could not remember the reason for that, felt a desire to bridge the gap, so she would again have someone to confide in, but before she had made up her mind to it, she spied Max approaching. _Not him_, she thought, _not now._

"Liz!" he called out cheerfully, having made a conscious effort to blot from memory the less-than-friendly treatment she had accorded him at their last meeting. However, it was recalled to him at once by the cool reception he got now. He had hoped for more; hoped he had misread her attitude of the previous night. "Have I done something wrong?" he asked, point blank. Liz shook her head. "Is there—someone else?" He cast around in his mind; only one face presented itself. "It's not Kyle, is it?"

Liz's eyes bulged. "_Kyle?_ My God, never."

"That's good. When I saw him looking at you yesterday..." Max laughed in relief. "I should have known you'd have better sense than that."

The color rose to her cheeks. "Oh, really, Max?" Immediately Max knew he had erred. "Well, guess what, my friend? I don't need your seal of approval on how I conduct my life. What I do about Kyle, or my parents, or anything else is based on my decisions as an independent rational being—a _human_ being. You don't know us enough about us to judge us. How could you? Someone like you?"

She had not meant to put it like that; she could see that it cut deeply, and she regretted saying it, but also she did not.

"Someone like me?" Max echoed hollowly. He ran his eyes down her: eyes that no longer beckoned her to lose herself there, but looked lost themselves. "You're right," he said. "I don't know you at all."

And so he left.

Maria flung her locker door shut with a clang. "Why would you do that?" It was the first thing she had said to Liz since the day before; she could not help herself.

"Do what?" said Liz. But she knew.

"Blow him off that way. The boy adores you!"

"Yeah, that could change. In a flash, Maria."

"It's not enough for you he saved your life? When you have someone you can count on, you don't—"

"You can't count on anyone, ever. Understand? Even people you thought you knew. And Max is different from us. It's a scientific fact. His thinking is different, his blood's different—what else? What's his life cycle? Maybe he's going to metamorphose into a—a giant green blob. And Michael too. Until we can conduct a controlled experimental study—"

"You want to _experiment_ on them? Like Dr. Frankenstein?"

Liz was shocked. "Is that how you see me?"

"Didn't you say once it's all right for scientists to hurt people as long as they get the information they want?"

"That's not what I said. I said sometimes sacrifices are—"

"_Human_ sacrifices? Or only alien sacrifices, like Max?"

"You are so ignorant of the scientific process." Liz could hear how stuck-up that sounded.

"I know your 'process' has turned you into some inhuman ice maiden—la fría. Why Max even bothers with you, I'll never understand. You don't deserve him as a boyfriend. Or me as a best friend."

"If you feel that way, why don't you get yourself a new best friend?"

"All right, I will!" Maria thought of the perfect parting shot. "And I know just the one—Pam Troy. Your _last_ boyfriend had the right idea." She saw this hit home and she was satisfied. Then she left. Liz was alone—all alone. _Well, so be it_, she thought; she made up her mind to relish her solitude.

Unfortunately it did not last. Late that afternoon at the Grunewalds', as she turned into the front walk, an all-too-recognizable voice brought her up short. "So is this _his_ place, huh?'

She whirled to meet the eyes of its owner. "Max, what are you doing here?"

"Had to find out who it was you've been seeing. I knew there had to be someone."

"You _followed_ me?"

"You wouldn't tell me. What other choice did I have?"

"I don't have to account to you for my movements! Maybe where you come from, this is a normal part of the mating ritual, but down here on Earth—"

"Where I come from? Liz, I've spent my whole life here—all I know of it."

"Exactly. But what _don't_ you know?" With the air of having won a point, she started on up the walk.

Max did the same. "Think I'll have a talk with this guy myself. Straighten out a few things."

Liz halted and faced him. "Max, do not do this. I'm telling you. Do _not._"

"It isn't like you to be so secretive."

"I never had a stalker before."

"I'm not a stalker!"

"Then stop acting like one. Go, Max. _Now._" She waited. So did he. But she was ready to wait forever and he was not. "All right," he said, with a hint of threat in it. Then he went. _Ironic_, Liz thought. _And here I'm doing all this just for him._ She believed it too. Self-justification, frustration, and a measure of regret competed inside her, but ultimately what took first place was the scientific spirit, and it was this which propelled her forward, along the walk, up the porch steps, and inside.

Her assignment that day—taking an inventory of the equipment—delighted her, not only because she enjoyed compiling lists of things but also because it gave her a chance to nose around, to the extent she could with Grunewald at his microscope only a few yards away. At one point she started to interrupt him, to ask the name of a particular beaker (or was it a retort?), but she stopped herself; best not, for his sake and her own. After assuring herself by a glance that he was not watching her, she pulled a little at the top drawer of the file cabinet: locked, of course. She continued with the inventory, but her eyes (and her mind) kept stealing back to the cabinet.

A few minutes later the doctor rose. "I'm going out for a little," he said. "Keep on with what you're doing."

No sooner was he gone than Liz started toward the desk, where the key had to be (if he did not have it with him). But she never got that far. Passing the microscope, she could not resist—she never could—the compulsion to peer in. She was astonished by what she saw: a blood specimen, but of a peculiar type, green instead of red; like so many tiny green eyes staring up at her. She had seen that type before.

Next to the microscope sat a wooden box containing more slides. She held one of them up to the light. It appeared to be another blood specimen; no doubt they all were. She was eager to work through them before the doctor returned—so extremely eager that when she tried to substitute the new slide for the one in the microscope plate, it slid out of her fingers, fell, and shattered on the floor. "Oh, no!" she cried.

She knelt and began collecting the pieces that were big enough for her to grasp. Then she heard the door open. She quickly stood, and with her rearmost foot swept the rest of the glass under the microscope table.

But it was not the doctor who entered; it was Nicky. "Hey, Liz!" he said, looking around. "You seen my dad?"

"He left for a while. Didn't say where he was going."

"Oh, no?"

"No."

Nicky looked around some more, trying to think of more to say. "You really like this test tube stuff, huh?"

"Oh, huh—I mean, yes. Yes, I do."

She was holding her hands behind her back. In her nervousness she closed the left one on the glass it was holding, and one of the shards punctured the skin. She gave a tiny squeal. "You okay?" Nicky asked.

Liz forced a smile to cover up what she was feeling. "Phenomenal," she said. But she did not look it.

Nicky was wise enough to be suspicious, but had no way of knowing what to be suspicious of. "You're sure my dad's not here?" he said.

"Do you see him anywhere?"

"No," he admitted.

"Well, then?"

Nicky looked for the catch and could not find it. "I really should get back to work," said Liz. She turned away, moving her hands to the front as she did so. Nicky was still unsatisfied, but he shrugged it off, as he was used to doing with his father. On his way out he left the door open again.

Liz uncupped her hand to examine the cut. Her blood had moistened the sample on the glass, and brought it welling to life. The two strains, green and red, pooled together, and appeared to glow for a second. Then the glow faded.

From the garage the discordant twangs of an electric guitar invaded the quietude; Nicky was practicing. His insistent rhythm matched Liz's galloping heartbeat. She ran to the sink, rinsed her hand, and wiped it dry with a paper towel. Kneeling by the table, she used the same towel to pick up what remained of the glass, fearful all the while that the doctor would return and catch her at it. When she had collected all she could, she folded it up in the towel, stuffed the towel into her purse, and ran from the lab. And then home.

As she approached the cafe she saw her father and Alex in conversation outside; she did not feel up to meeting either one. So she circled around to the back alley and entered by the fire ladder, the rooftop patio, and her bedroom window. Once inside, she re-inspected the cut, which was now almost unnoticeable. She extracted her journal from its hiding place within the wall, took it to her desk, and began to write up her observations, impartially (as she hoped) and impassively.

She was interrupted by a knock at her door. "Liz?" Her mother: of course. And the purpose of her visit would be to lecture her daughter on the importance of being sensitive to the needs of one's parents'. Liz knew all about that, but her own needs were all that mattered to her at the moment. And so she ignored the knocking. "Liz, I heard you come in," said Nancy, "so I know you're in there. Open your door, please."

Her mother's persistency would keep her out there forever, and Liz, having inherited it herself, knew this. "What?" she said finally, with a sullenness she felt sometimes but seldom gave way to.

"Open your door and I'll tell you."

Liz smacked her pen down with a sigh of exasperation. Moments later she swung the door open and was staring into her mother's face. "What?" she said again.

"Well," said Nancy, " some courtesy, for a start."

"Sorry," said Liz, only half-meaning it, and then, in a tone only a little moderated, "So?"—which was not very far from "What?"

Fortunately Nancy, from her years with Jeff, was practiced in patience and forbearance. And she truly had Liz's best interest at heart. She tried to stay focused on that. "I'd like to ask you a personal question. If I may."

"Can I stop you?"

"Are you and Max not speaking these days?"

Liz was surprised she would even know that. "Why would you care? You never liked me seeing him."

"True. But there's also Maria."

"What about Maria?"

"She's asked to cut back her hours, to work only the shifts you're not working. Have you quarreled with her too?"

"She was being completely unfair." She wanted to add, _And it's none of your business either_, but she restrained herself.

"Liz, if you're pushing away everyone who cares about you—"

"I'm not the one who's leaving!"

This had seemed to burst out of her from nowhere; she had had no idea she was going to say it, and she wished she had not, or not in that way. But now that it had been said, it could not be taken back. That would have been dishonest.

Nancy had flinched a little at the outcry; she shut her eyes while she recovered her train of thought. "And now you're afraid to be close to anybody," she said. "Not the most positive outcome, Liz—is it?" Liz did not reply. She did not know what to say. The statement was not entirely true—but it was not entirely untrue either.

Her mother saw there was no point in pressing her to say more. "All right, then do me this one favor at least—spare me two hours of your time. It shouldn't take any longer than that."

"What shouldn't?"

Nancy answered with another question. "What time tomorrow are you through with your lab work?" This was what Liz was calling her job at Grunewald's, when anyone asked.

"Five."

"That's fine. We can go then. Please try to be on time, will you?" She began to shut the door.

"On time for what? Where are we going?"

"A place I want you to see." Liz could not imagine where, but did not expend much thought on the question; she had a more pressing worry.

She tried not to show her nervousness the following afternoon as she attended to her lab duties, as well as she could manage with her heart pounding inside her like a fist on a punching bag. Grunewald was standing at the microscope table, searching through the box of slides—and then searching through them once again. Liz tried keep from looking at him.

"Ms. Parker?" he called at last. "Come here a moment, will you?" And she came. "Today one of my slides appears to be missing. Would you be able to shed any light on its disappearance?"

Liz opened her mouth with the intention of producing a lie. But that was not what came out. "I broke it," she said. Grunewald's face betrayed no expression; Liz felt compelled to go on. "I was looking at it and I dropped it. I hoped—I hoped that you wouldn't notice."

The doctor's tongue made a clock-like sound. "Wouldn't you have noticed, in my place?" Liz did not reply. "Of course you would. So that was a vain hope, wasn't it?" This time he did not wait for the answer. "May I ask where the slide is now?"

"It broke, I told you. I threw the pieces away."

"Yes, but where is it really?" His eyes bored into her. "With Max Evans?"

This astonished her. "Max? I would never—no!"

Grunewald took a key from his pocket. "Open the top drawer of my filing cabinet, if you will." Liz did as instructed. "And now remove the last folder—no, the very last one. Open it." Inside she discovered a stack of photos—dozens, maybe hundreds of them—of Max and herself in every place that they frequented: school, the cafe, the park, various sidewalks. Some of the moments pictured, she did not remember herself. In the same drawer, she had seen other folders, with other photos. "You came here spying on his behalf," Grunewald proclaimed, "to find out what I know about him. And you took that slide to show him, didn't you? Eh? Confess it!"

"No! I'm not here for him. I'm not!" She realized it for the first time. "I told myself I was, but that wasn't true. I'm here for me—because _I_ want to know. _Me_, Liz Parker. Maybe that's wrong, but it won't make it right to keep deceiving myself." Grunewald's eyes showed a glimmer of satisfaction. "And I wasn't honest with you either. I'm sorry about that. But would you have been, in my place?"

"No," he said, "I confess I would not."

"Then that was a vain hope—wasn't it?"

"Don't be pert." But he sounded amused rather than offended. "Very well, I believe you. You may continue working here." He turned back to his microscope.

But Liz—forthright, compulsively driven Liz (and therein, though she would have denied it, her mother's daughter)—was not about to leave it at that. "Now hold on a minute! You have a right to be mad at me because I broke your slide and I wasn't up front with you about me and Max. But what about you? You knew about us. Obviously you've been spying on us. The blood on that slide was Max's, wasn't it? How did you get it?"

Grunewald regarded her with something like amazement. "Then you knew what it was. No one else would have. You're the best possible person I could have found to assist me here." Liz felt herself beaming, and told herself to stop it. "But there are things you don't know. That blood didn't belong to your friend. It belonged to my son."

"Nicky?"

"When he was scarcely more than an infant, I was engaged by the county to provide pediatric services to the orphanage—the old one, out on Highway 285. I believe it was later converted to a cheese factory."

"I know. Max told me."

Grunewald stood and crossed to the file cabinet. "There was a fire. It was deliberately set. Someone wanted those records destroyed." Immediately Liz thought of Nasedo. "And they _were_ destroyed—all except the carbon copies I'd taken." He pulled out another folder and handed it to her. It contained the blood analysis on Max that she had seen in Nicky's exhibit, an identical analysis on Isabel, and other reports concerning one or the other.

"As part of my duties," Grunewald elaborated, "I examined every child as it was enrolled. One night, two children, a boy and a girl, were brought in from the desert. I knew from the first that they were different. Their blood had properties that seemed—almost magical." Liz envisioned a makeshift office, occupied by a younger, more fervid Grunewald, and two small, scared children—strangers in a strange land—under his curious scrutiny.

"Nicky was anemic," he continued. "Rashly, I infused their blood into him, hoping it would strengthen him." Liz surmised that he had done it in secret—taken the magical children from their beds, drawn their blood behind a locked door, sneaked the specimens out under his coat. She wondered for a moment just how ethical a physician he had been. But it was not for her to judge; she could imagine herself in the same circumstances and doing the same.

"I brought in a colleague to confirm my findings about the children. I gave him the blood to examine for himself. But they changed it somehow—that is, the girl did." This gave Liz to wonder: how would Isabel have known to do that, lacking language, or other data on this world? How would she have known that was what would be required to divert suspicion? Perhaps she had picked up an image from Grunewald's mind and guessed enough of its meaning. Or perhaps she had seen into his own blood, divined that it represented the standard to which they were supposed to conform, and changed Max's to match. Again Liz could envision the scene: Grunewald inspecting the sample again, blaming the children for the change in it, insisting that his colleague wait until he could drag them back in and take another sample, a true one this time...

"Of course he thought I was insane. Unfit for duty." _Of course_, Liz agreed silently; anyone would have. "He took his opinion to the county board, and my contract was terminated. Later I gave up the practice altogether to devote myself to teaching—and my research. By then it was vital to me." He stared darkly at the slide box. "You see, the blood I'd pumped into—into Nicky—had had the opposite effect from what I'd intended. It corrupted his blood. It poisoned him."

Liz felt a chill. She glanced down at her left hand, which the same blood had entered—but just a smidge of it, and the cut had stopped bleeding by the time she got home; so she reassured herself. Of course she would continue to monitor its progress; that was the scientific thing to do. But there was no basis for worry, none at all. She was sure that if she told the doctor, he would confirm her conclusion. But she was not going to tell him.

She became aware that her attention had strayed. "...find a cure," Grunewald was saying. "But I had only that small sample of donor blood to start. Now it's used up and I need more. From your friend and his sister. If you were to invite them here and I showed them the work I'm doing, perhaps together we could persuade them to work with us."

Liz did not quite understand. "By giving blood, you mean?"

"By offering themselves as subjects for experiment." He could not hide his excitement; it would have put Liz off if she had not felt it too. This as what she had been wanting herself, and when Grunewald went on to describe his plan, he was describing her own fantasy. "We could perform every test there is," he said, "and learn all there is to know about their physiology. It would mark a new chapter in scientific discovery, and perhaps it would show me the way to a cure—for Nicky, I mean. Will you help me?"

Liz hesitated—but for practical, not ethical, reasons. "First off," she said, "you can forget about Isabel. Nobody's ever been able to talk her into doing something that wasn't her idea to start with. Max—maybe, if you put it to him the right way. And if I can get him over here."

"Yes, yes," Grunewald agreed matter-of-factly, "you do that. I will take care of the rest."

And so that afternoon Max received an unexpected visit at work. The UFO Center was empty of visitors, as it often was in the late afternoon. He was proceeding up and down the rows of photos and news cuttings, wiping the dust from the display windows, when he happened to look toward the entryway where a flashing green light simulated...something, he was never sure what—the landing lights of a UFO perhaps, or a containment breach at Area 51—and he saw Liz on the steps. The pulsing glow gave her features a sinister cast that came and went, came and went.

She descended by the steps to the main floor and approached him; her first words were harmless enough. "Hi, Max."

"Oh, are we talking again?" He continued dusting. "Or is this part of some experiment?"

Liz paled a little. "Why—why would you say that?"

"Specimen for dissection, remember?"

She had to strain to recall the conversation, it seemed so long ago now. "Oh. Yeah. Sorry." Further apology seemed in order. "And for yesterday."

At last, relenting, he looked at her. "Me too." The fault had been partly his.

"It's natural we'd have trouble communicating sometimes," Liz offered. "After all, you _are_ different from—the rest of us."

"Different scary?"

"No!" But that was not precisely accurate. "That is, not in yourself—"

"Only as a freak of nature?"

"No! As a—an undetermined quantity. That is, an anomaly—or seeming anomaly—oh, I knew I'd mess this up." She cut to the chase. "Max, there's someone I'd like you to meet. He's the person I've been seeing after school." She could tell from Max's face what he was thinking. "It isn't like that! He's a doctor. I'm helping him in his research. He's interested in enlisting you to help too."

Max grew wary. "What kind of research?"

"He'll explain it to you. I can take you to see him when you're done here."

Max shook his head. "My parents are expecting me home for dinner. Since I just got off being grounded, I don't want to push it."

"Then after dinner?"

Max felt an uneasiness he could not explain to himself, let alone to her. "Liz, are you sure this is something you want?"

"At the moment it's what I want most in the whole world."

That settled the question. After his unjust suspicions before, he felt he could not deny her this; he had been wrong then, and probably was now. "All right. I'll come by for you at 7."

"7 would—oh, no!" She had suddenly remembered her appointment with her mother. "I can't. I have to go now. I'll meet you there at 7:30. 'bye!"

"Liz! Who are we meeting?" But she was already out the doors.

She arrived home only a couple of minutes late, and was soon sitting beside her mother in the red Acura, heading south on 285. "Where are you taking us?" Liz asked.

"You'll see soon enough."

"Who'll make dinner for Dad if we're both gone?"

"Liz, we own a restaurant, remember?"

Liz looked back toward town. She was worried about Max, she did not know why—maybe because when she had left him he had seemed worried himself. But that was usual with him. She had no clue where she and her mother were going, and did not try to guess; it would have been a waste of time.

At last they turned onto a winding drive which Liz recognized as the approach to Angels' Ground. She wondered why she had been brought there. The parking area was empty; the loving couples would not start arriving for two hours. Nancy swung in at one end and shut off the motor. As the two of them stepped out of the car, a soft breeze welcomed them. They took the path that ran along the west rim, with Nancy leading. She stopped at fifty yards or so. "This is it," she announced.

Liz made a quick reconnaissance; the spot appeared indistinguishable from any other. "Okay. _What_ is it?"

"The place where your dad and I used to come every Friday night for our—romantic interludes, I suppose you could call them—both before our marriage and after. For a while at least."

This disclosure made Liz feel a little squirmy. "Mom, I'm not sure I need to—"

"One Friday night," her mother went on, ignoring her, "something strange and wonderful happened here. Your father claimed afterward he hadn't seen it, but he had. He blocked it because it didn't jibe with his world view."

"What was it?" Liz was interested in spite of herself.

"Well. At the moment when we—that is, when _I_—_the_ moment—you understand?"

Liz felt squirmy again. "Mom..."

"—I saw a glow. Down there." Her eyes—and so, inevitably, Liz's—dropped to that part of her. "And I could feel it. I could feel the glow. That was the moment you were conceived."

"But how could you know that? I mean, how could you be sure?"

Her mother laughed. "My little scientist. I just _knew._ So, you see, your arrival was magical from the beginning. You were—and you are—something very special to both of us."

"Except Dad didn't see it."

"He did. The first time he held you." She squeezed Liz's arm. "It's not you he blames, baby. It's himself. He's just taking it out on you. And he blames himself for that too."

Liz understood her father, for the most part; the physical phenomenon she had just heard described, and which seemed unexplainable, interested her more. "A glow, you said?"

"I'd sign an affidavit attesting to the fact. And Amy Deluca—"

"Maria's mom?"

"She always insisted this place was a center of cosmic power. Of course, that was Amy."

This set an idea simmering in Liz's brain. "Is it possible Maria was conceived here too?"

"I wouldn't be surprised. The two of them used to come up here all the time. Amy and that lowlife she ended up marrying—and later divorcing." Another recollection came to her. "'Glowworm'! That's what she used to call Maria as a baby. I wonder—"

Liz could hardly contain her excitement. "And Alex's parents? Did they come up here too?"

"We never really knew them. His mother died, didn't she?"

But Liz had stopped listening, caught up in the wonder of her discovery. "I bet they did. I bet... It's got to be more than a coincidence. Don't you see?" Of course her listener did not, but the question was rhetorical. "Oh, my God, this is amazing!"

In her enthusiasm she had all but forgotten the presence of her mother, who had moved to the cliff edge, facing the sinking sun. After a moment Liz heard a sound she had only heard from her once before: the sound of sobbing. "Mom? What is it?"

Nancy laughed, even as she wept. "She asks what it is. My life's about to take a left turn into a tunnel with no light at the end, my family is disintegrating because of a choice I made—me, no one else—and my only child, whom I had believed to be upset about this state of things—who certainly gave every indication of it up to this evening—_she_ is deliriously happy." She broke out in a cry. "What do you have to be so damn happy about?"

Under normal circumstances Liz would have felt that a hug was called for. But the two of them had never been like that, or not since Liz had been small. "Mom, I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking about you and the stuff you must be going through."

"Guess not," Nancy muttered.

Liz continued without pausing. "It's just that what you told me is, like, a really big deal—so big you can't even imagine."

Nancy thought she might. "Does it have anything to do with Max Evans?"

Liz did not know how to answer. "In a way."

"I know the two of you are into something out of the ordinary, something you won't talk to your father or me about. We thought at first it might be drugs—"

"Oh, Mom, no!"

"We realize that now. It must be something we're too old to understand. Some kind of cult thing. I know how exciting those can be. But they can also be consuming. So, whatever this 'big deal' is—"

Liz could not tell her; even if she could have done so without revealing the origin of Max and the others, it was too early to regard it as proven. But she did not like to see her mother waste her time in straying down the wrong road. "What it is, Mom, is a—hypothesis. Which, if true, would explain why Max and I are—why we seem to be—destined for each other." Her mother smiled tolerantly. "I know, it sounds all gooey-eyed. But it's totally scientific. Like a unified field theory of my life, or that part of it anyhow. And if Alex can confirm it—"

"Baby, there are some things you can't predict. As I can vouch from late experience."

Liz had another of her bright ideas. "Do you think if you brought Dad up here—"

"Nice thought. But it's too late. That chapter's over. The life has drained out of us." Liz saw this was true, and that she ought to have seen it before; there had been plenty of signs. But she had not been looking. "As you know," said Nancy, "my work has been taking me to Santa Fe lately. That's where I'll be moving. And I was hoping..." She did not have to finish. "It's a big city, Liz. With a lot more to see, more in the way of opportunities—"

Liz remembered. Soon after Nancy had begun commuting to the capital, twice (and occasionally three times) a week, she had taken Liz there for a day to show her around, even letting her skip school for the occasion. They had taken in the museums and galleries, lunched at the _best_ little Mexican seafood place, which Nancy's boss had recommended, and gone home with dozens of sights left unseen. At the time the prospect of living there some day had tempted Liz keenly, but now...

"I can't," she said.

Nancy nodded. "You've always been closer to your father. Even when you're mad at each other."

"He needs somebody. To remind him of stuff."

"Don't I know it?"

"Then there's Max. Things aren't good between us at the moment. I'd like to make them right, if I can."

"Baby, don't take this wrong, but I wouldn't want to see you toss away your future for something that may only be for the present."

Her daughter smiled at the obviousness of the advice. "You know, I know that. And I know this chapter will probably end too. But what if it's not for a long time? What if it never ends?"

"You can't tell," Nancy conceded. "Especially at sixteen." On an impulse, she opened her arms. "May I hug my sixteen-year-old?"

It was out of character for both, but Liz could hardly refuse. The unaccustomed closeness, awkward as it felt, was oddly pleasing. But after a few seconds she found herself becoming impatient. "Um, this is great, but, you know, I need to get back. I promised to meet Max. And before that, I have to conduct a—field interview."

Nancy stared at her. "You are the oddest girl sometimes."

As they walked back to the car, Liz recalled another of her investigations, which was puzzling her increasingly. "That V shape up there—I don't suppose you know what constellation it is?"

"You're the science mavin." Nancy looked upward where Liz was pointing. "I don't see anything. Must be my aging eyes." And she could not have missed it; at that early hour, it was the only thing in the sky. This corroborated Mr. Seligman's testimony. _Then only we can see it_, Liz thought, _we six._ She did not yet know it for a scientific fact, of course. But she would have bet anything on it.

Before leaving for her interview, of which Alex was to be the subject, she peered into her wall niche, pondering whether to take the artifact along. Following the interview, she would be seeing Grunewald, and she believed that with his knowledge of extraterrestrials, he might be able to infer something of its nature; also, she would have liked to impress him with a find of her own. But she had not asked Max, and suspected he would not approve. So she sealed the niche again.

When she reached the Whitman house, music greeted her ears, though the garage door was shut. She pounded on it without result. The self-correcting clock she always carried with her read 6:40; she could still get to Grunewald's on time. She walked over to the front stoop, where her ring at the door was answered, though none too promptly, by Alex's father. "You'll be wanting Alex," he said. "I'll take you back to him."

"I tried the garage door. But with all the noise..."

"I know!" Donald agreed. "We're trying to hold a meeting here." As she stepped inside, he nodded toward the den, where a group of men like him—middle-aged and dull—were congregated. Liz hated to stereotype people, but after all, some people _were_ stereotypes. "If those kids don't knock it off soon, I'll"—Donald floundered—"declare an adjournment," he ended lamely. Then he led her up the hall toward the garage.

Liz's eyes kept returning to the den. "What kind of meeting is that?"

"Not your concern." The rudeness of his answer surprised her. Then he noticed the top of the _UFO Inquirer_ protruding from her purse. "Is that my magazine?"

"You know, it is. I was just—"

He grabbed it. "How'd you get hold of it?"

"Alex loaned it to me to read."

"He should learn to respect other people's property." He inspected. "Now look at it! The corner's bent."

Liz began to suspect a strain of immaturity in his make-up, but she also realized he could tell her more about Angels' Ground than his son could. Then she would not have to wait for the Whits to finish rehearsing. "Excuse me," she said to him, "you may think it's weird, me asking you this—"

That was as far as she got; Donald either had not heard her or was ignoring her deliberately. The two of them had now reached the connecting door. As Donald he threw it open, a tide of noise rolled out and over them. Alex and his bandmates—Nicky on guitar, Markos on rhythm, and Chris on drums—were in full swing. "Alex!" his father shouted over them. "Company!" With that, he went in to his meeting, leaving Liz on her own. But somehow Alex had managed to hear the announcement and he acknowledged her presence with a nod .

It was not long afterward when Max arrived at Dr. Grunewald's, his apprehensions of ill omen continuing unallayed. He had arrived early, and was standing on the porch debating whether to stay when the door swung open, revealing a figure whom he recognized immediately. "You!" he said—but recovered fast enough to mask the recognition. "—must be the man I'm supposed to meet," he finished. "Liz invited me."

"Ms. Parker was detained. She asked me to see to you till she arrives." Grunewald's manner was smooth, almost too smooth. "And see to you I shall," he concluded as Max stepped across the threshold, his misgivings blazing more strongly than ever. He hardly had time to see the syringe raised above him, in a hand that had been hidden, before the needle plunged into his neck. And he had no time whatever to act before the drug took hold and the room went black.

The panic he had felt in those few seconds was communicated to Isabel in a flash. She dropped the plate she was drying, which her mother, next to her at the sink, had just washed. "What is it?" asked Diane. "What's wrong?"

Isabel stared at the pieces on the floor. If her mother had not been present, she could have reassembled them in a trice. "Slipped out of my hand. Sorry."

The phone rang in the living room. "You get it," Diane said. "I'm sure it's for you. Meanwhile I'll take care of this." As she swept up, she could half-hear Isabel's side of the ensuing conversation, and moved to the entryway to hear it better.

"Michael...Yes, I did. But I'm sure it was nothing. I would know...Yes, you'll be the first...Yes, I promise... 'bye."

Diane's maternal instinct signaled her that something was wrong. "Was that Michael? What was he calling about?"

"Nothing that need concern him." Isabel was happy that her mother could not see her face, because in it she probably would have seen the fear that Isabel had successfully hidden from Michael; that had been both for Max's good and for his own. He had received the same flash she had, but she had could not trust him to act, and especially to react, in a responsible fashion; it was up to her alone.

She tried to sense her brother, but could not. That meant his consciousness was functioning at its lowest level, too low for her to pick up at a distance, or not functioning at all. Either he was out cold, or... She moved to her room so as not to be seen. Already her mother was hunting for her in the living room; in a minute she would come tapping at the bedroom door. Isabel would have just enough time to do what was called for. If Max was not dead but only unconscious his dreamspace would be out there somewhere, open to her, if she could find it.

After much searching, she did. He was not dreaming, exactly, but inhabited a hazy limbo in which a fun-house reflection of himself kept materializing and dematerializing, first in one place, then in another. _Drugged_, thought Isabel. But by whom, and why?

At that moment the only person (besides the culprit) who could have told her was shrinking against the door of the Whitmans' garage with her hands over her ears; the Whits made a lot of music in a little space. Alex gestured to the others to cut it, and when they failed to comply he stepped to the amplifier and yanked out the feed. The noise subsided with a moan; Liz uncovered her ears. His fellow Whits, released from their trance-like state, looked around, blinking. "Break time," Alex announced. "I have to talk to Liz."

One of them grabbed a soccer ball from the corner, another lifted the garage door, and all three ran out to the drive. As Alex came up to Liz he pointed to the system he had just silenced. "Isabel tweaked the amp for us. Isn't the sound awesome?"

Liz declined to express an opinion—and there was something else on her mind, anyway. "Alex, who are those men in your house?"

"Bunch of UFO nuts. They meet monthly to compare sightings. That's what you came here to ask me?"

"No, not at all." She took a deep breath. "Okay, I realize how strange this sounds, but just how much do you know about your conception?"

"My conception of what?"

"No, the moment you were _conceived._ Before you were born."

"Oh, that. I never thought about it." His face wrinkled. "Not sure I want to think about it now. Why?"

"Is there any chance it could have happened at Angels' Ground?"

"Possible, I guess. Isn't that where guys take girls to—wait a minute!" He ran into the house. Liz checked her clock again; she had plenty of time left. She watched idly as the other band members kicked the ball around. Soon they moved the activity into the street. Since it was a cul-de-sac, they were running little risk from traffic; not that that would have discouraged them.

A few minutes later Alex returned with a framed photo, which he handed Liz. It showed his father and his late mother standing side by side at the location she had left less than an hour earlier. "That's the place, right?" said Alex.

"I knew it!" She felt the thrill of having her hypothesis vindicated, and of being involved in the greater mystery it had opened up—what _was_ Angels' Ground?—which so far lay beyond hypothesizing. It reminded her of the other mystery that had been so much on her mind lately. She took Alex by the hand and led him out to the drive, from which she pointed up at the five points of light twinkling against the deepening blue. "You _can_ see those, right?"

"Those five stars making a V?"

Another hypothesis of hers vindicated. "But why?" she mused. "Of course _they_ can see them. They can do a lot of things. But why us humans?" The photo of Alex's parents gave her an inspiration. "Maybe because of that—because we were... Maybe there's a connection!"

Alex was at a loss. "Liz, you're rambling again."

"You'd ramble too, if—" She never got to finish, for at that moment a soccer ball struck her on the hip. "Ow!"

Markos ran up. "Sorry, Nicky bounced it off his head. He likes to do that." He picked up the ball. "You're not hurt, are you?"

"Yes, a little."

"Really?" Markos shrugged. "Happens sometimes." He kicked the ball and ran into the street after it.

Liz herself witnessed the next use of Nicky's patented head block, which she saw was apt to send the ball flying any which way, and which to her looked painful. "Should he be doing that?" she asked doubtfully.

Alex noticed her rubbing her sore thigh. "Sorry. Does it hurt a lot?"

"I'm not talking about me. I mean, is it right for him to be hitting it with his head like that?"

"Liz, it's not a regulation match. They're just fooling around."

"But should he be playing that rough? As frail as he is?"

"Nicky? Frail?" Alex laughed. "He may be skinny, but he's tough as pig iron. Even when we were little—except that Nicky was never little—he was always running his trike into things, skinning his knees and elbows. He always had cuts and bruises all over him."

"But that's not what—" A suspicion entered her mind. "Alex, how much do you know about his dad?"

"Aside from the alien thing, you mean? Not much. really. He may be a crank, but he's always been okay with me. You know who had it in for him, though? Isabel's dad. My dad's a building inspector with the city, and he told me Mr. Evans kept a campaign boiling against him for months—filing complaints, circulating petitions, all kinds of stuff. Finally forced Grunewald to shut down."

"Why would he do that?"

"Well, you know the rumor. But you can't always—"

"What rumor?" Sometimes Liz felt as if she had spent her whole life in a vacuum-sealed chamber.

"You never heard? That he tried something funny with Max and Isabel. When they were kids."

Liz had been seasick once; that was how she felt now as dread flooded her mind. What if the invitation she had conveyed to Max was just a ploy of Grunewald's to get at him again? He had certainly lied to her about Nicky; what else had he lied about? "I have to go," she said, and she dashed off, fear written in her features.

"Did I say something wrong?" asked Alex. She was too far away to answer, and so he answered himself. "Yep. Musta said something wrong."

She knocked insistently at the doctor's door for a long time before he showed his face; she inferred that he must have been in his lab. "Where's Max?" she asked, between quaffs of air; she had run all the way and was still short of breath.

"He said he had to be getting home. He was early, you see. Waited for you nearly an hour. I hope I was right to let him go?" Liz did not know whether to believe him or not. The words, the look, the air of apparent concern all came too readily; he was not really connecting with her, only making a show of doing so. He looked tired, and that might explain it.

But it could not explain the lie. "You told me Nicky was frail. That was your word, frail."

Grunewald guessed why she had brought it up. "Yes, one wouldn't know it to look at him, would one? And I suppose he doesn't take the care of himself that he should." Again the explanation flowed too easily, and again Liz doubted him. But she also doubted herself for feeling that way. Grunewald was recessive at the best of times; tonight she could not read him at all. And she did not want to believe ill of him, or of science and the scientific method. So she gave him the benefit of the doubt. "You're absolutely sure Max went home?"

"Haven't I just said so, my dear?"

The sexism, she let pass. "Okay, thanks. I'll try him there." Grunewald smiled at her, rather distantly, and then shut the door; Liz heard the click of the lock, which renewed her suspicions for a moment. But she thought the most sensible course of action was to check at Max's house before anything else. While there she could also ask Mr. Evans for a confirmation of Alex's story.

When she was gone, Grunewald returned to his lab. Next to the examining table he had moved into place a short stand on rollers with a squarish bag attached to it; from the bag ran a tube that ended in a needle. "Now we will have the blood of you," he said to the subject supine on the table, who could not hear him. "_All_ the blood, I think." Again he smiled distantly. "Yes, yes, that will be good."

An arch of leaves like a big croquet wicket marked the entrance to the Evanses' front yard. The path was paved with four-squared stones, which Liz normally took the time to appreciate, but tonight she was in a hurry. As she approached the house, Isabel appeared in the drive and crossed the lawn to intercept her. She was in a hurry too. "Where's Max?" she demanded.

"He isn't here?"

"Would I ask if he was? He said he was meeting you."

"Is your dad home? I need to talk to him."

Isabel laid a hand on the base of her neck with more force than Liz considered polite. "We have to find Max first. He may be in trouble."

"I know. And your dad can help. He knows about Dr. Grunewald."

A horrible idea flashed into Isabel's mind—and she was not picking it up from Liz either. "Grunewald! Is Max with him?" Liz's face betrayed her fear, and some of her guilt. Clutching her even more tightly, Isabel shut her eyes. To Liz it seemed as if a light were being trained on the myriad segments of her mind, each in turn, at a speed that was inconceivable. Isabel was scanning her thoughts, public and private, and bypassing all of them, except one. When she opened her eyes again, they were full of accusation. "_You_ invited him there? Liz, how could you?"

"I didn't know. How could I?" Her voice was trembling; she felt herself about to cry.

Isabel had neither the time nor the disposition to offer sympathy. "You're going back there with me," she said, "now." She did not offer Liz a choice.

Seconds later the Jeep, with the two of them in it, was racing through town. "Grunewald was the doctor at the orphanage," Isabel informed Liz—"that is, until they found out he was crazy and fired him."

"He told me you were responsible for that. That you changed Max's blood sample. Was that true? At that age?" She knew this was not the time to ask, and that she had no right, considering the trouble she had made for them, but she was so curious she could not help herself.

"I didn't know I'd done it," said Isabel. She did not sound pleased with herself, as might have been expected; she sounded defensive. "I don't know how I did it. It just happened—when I sensed he was going to hurt Max. And did he tell you what he did to us after that? He began stalking us—following us around, taking our pictures." _He still is_, thought Liz, _only you don't know it._ "One day he tried to lure us to his office to get more of our blood. We got scared and ran away. He chased us into the candy store, and the lady there called our dad—thank God." Liz wished, wished, _wished_ she had known all this; how could she not have? "The one man Dad did everything he could to save us from," Isabel concluded, "and you delivered my brother into his hands. How loyal of you, Liz."

This was crushing. Liz searched for some idea, any idea, to contribute. "You could ask Michael to help."

"I don't want Michael's help. He'd probably kill Grunewald first thing out of the gate."

"But you won't?"

"No. Not unless—" She shut off the thought.

A few moments later they pulled up at the house. "Follow me," Isabel ordered, "and do exactly as I say. Understand?" Liz was gazing at the property, dismayed by the transformation it had undergone in her eyes: once charmingly unkempt, it now loomed up as a ramshackle ruin, with menace lurking in every recess. "Liz!" Isabel said sharply. Liz recollected herself. "I asked if you understand." Liz gave a little nod.

Isabel led the way up onto the porch. "Go ahead, knock," she said. Liz did, but Grunewald did not answer; Isabel had not expected him to. "Stand back," she ordered. "And don't ever tell anyone about this. Not even Max."

She turned to the door, and almost at once it began to bubble. It melted away on both sides and ran down the frame to form two puddles of brown ooze on the floor. Liz stared in amazement. "That looks like—"

"Chocolate," Isabel confirmed. "It's easier if you know the substance you're dealing with."

She marched into the house, with Liz taking up the rear; a glance back at the door, and it was restored to its former condition. "Rule number one," said Isabel. "Clean up your messes as you go. You might never get another chance."

Liz supposed she would never get a chance at all. "The lab's that way," she said.

"I know. I can sense him there—Max, I mean." She headed to the back. Liz cast her eyes around warily, half-expecting the doctor to leap out at them from some corner.

The lab was unlocked. Isabel entered alone. Grunewald was nowhere to be seen. She rushed to Max, who was still lying unconscious on the table. She shook him, kissed him, called his name, but all to no avail; he remained inert. Eyes shut, she probed his dreamspace. He was no longer skittering here and there as he had been, but his form was semi-transparent; she did not dare to touch it in that state. "Max!" she called. "You have to wake up. I have to get you out of here." At first he seemed not to have heard. Then, as his form grew more solid, he lifted his eyes to hers and nodded slowly.

As she emerged from the dream limbo into the world of the woken, the body beside her stirred and opened its eyes. She was the first thing Max saw, standing there beside him like Florence Nightingale, wearing an expression that radiated care and gratitude. She did not often show her love so obviously; like, never. "Thanks," he whispered. Isabel dropped a tear, and was mad at herself for it. _Damn_, she thought, _I'm turning into Liz._

Liz was hovering in the space between the house and the outbuilding, where Isabel had instructed her to wait. She heard a clatter from a shed to the side. A few seconds later Grunewald emerged, his eyes bleary, his shirt hanging outside his trousers. He was carrying a surgical saw. Liz, rather dauntlessly under the circumstances, moved to block the laboratory door, as far as her size would allow. Grunewald stopped; her presence seemed to confuse him. "Ms. Parker," he said finally, as if he had located the name in some long-disused directory. "Stand aside, if you please."

"You lied to me." Once again her indignation overcame her better judgment. "Nicky doesn't have anemia. He's not dying."

"No," Grunewald admitted. "_I_ am." He lifted the saw. Liz shrank back. But he was not looking at her; he was staring at his own arm. She turned away as he sliced through his shirt sleeve, just above the wrist. The wound bled, stained the white cotton red, and dripped out of the slash in the fabric onto the red brick paving.

"It was the blood, you see," he said. "It poisoned me. Not Nicky, me." The syllables came in a slurred monotone, and with a thicker accent than usual. "It ended"—Liz could not be sure he had not said "undid"—"my practice, ja. It even turned Helene against me. She said I was crazy, she would have taken my son, but I told her I would have _her_ declared crazy. The blood again, you see. It drove her away. But _his_ blood will bring her back." Liz realized he was speaking of Max. His lips gathered into a pout. "But der bag does not work, nein. The blood does not flow. It trickles in dribs und drabs. Mit this, it will flow!" He lifted the saw again and lurched toward her.

"Drop your weapon!" a voice shouted. Liz looked toward the house. Valenti was standing at the back door, Deputy Owen in the kitchen behind, with both their guns trained on Grunewald. "Drop it, I said!" This time Grunewald complied. Valenti turned to Liz. "Come around to me," he instructed her, "nice and slow." But Grunewald made no move to stop her.

Owen hurried past her to him. As he was grappling with a set of cuffs, trying to get them open, he noticed the blood-soaked arm. "He's wounded, Sheriff!"

"Take him to the car and bandage him." They kept a first-aid kit under the dash. "But cuff his other hand to the door handle first." Owen marched Grunewald off toward the street.

"Come on," said Valenti, speaking to someone in the house. Liz had not suspected there were others with him. But now they were revealed, framed for a second in the doorway as they paced briskly forth: Agent Topolsky and a man in a suit, also obviously FBI. They were headed for the lab.

Liz thought of Isabel. She lunged out in front of the posse, trying to make it look as if she had stumbled accidentally. "Nice try, Liz," said Topolsky. "Now clear the way."

Hearing her voice, Isabel instituted a change of plan. Max was safe; that was what mattered. But he was just beginning to recover from the sedative, too groggy to summon his powers to his own aid. "I'll call Dad," Isabel promised; her meaning was somewhat cryptic, but Max was hardly listening anyway. She ran her eyes over the file cabinet, the refrigerator, the slide box—every object in the room that might contain evidence pointing to either of them—and she focused on each in turn, just long enough to do what was necessary. Then she raced to the wall and dived into it—literally, like diving into a pool of water—and was gone.

The FBI agents and Valenti clattered down the steps, with Liz trotting after them like a puppy. They scanned the room. Liz spied Max straining to sit up. She ran to him and put her arm around him. "Here, let me help you."

He was conscious enough to understand this. "_Help_ me?" he said, and he shook off her arm. The rejection, and the justice of it, pierced her to the heart. But she got her wish anyway, if only briefly; when Max swung his legs down and tried to stand, they faltered under him, and he had to lean on Liz while easing into a sitting position on the edge of the table.

The two agents ignored him for the moment as they searched the room for evidence, of which they found none. The file cabinet contained no files, only dust; the slide box contained no slides, only a puddle of what smelled like...the agent elected not to investigate farther; the beakers in the refrigerator contained what looked like Jello. Everywhere, it was the same: the evidence, if there had been any, had either been removed or changed to something useless. Topolsky turned on Max. "Did you do this?"

"He was unconscious," Liz said quickly.

Topolsky looked around again. Someone was missing. "Where's the girl who was with you?"

"What girl?"

Valenti advanced until he was shoulder to shoulder with his colleague. "Don't play dumb with us, Ms. Parker. Isabel Evans."

"She must have left by the back way."

Valenti peered around. "_What_ back way?"

Topolsky returned her attention to Max. "What did Grunewald do to you?"

Max was now fully cognizant, though his head still felt heavy. "Nothing. I mean, he was showing me around the place, and I must have fainted. Haven't been eating very well. Stomach problems."

"What did he say to you?" Topolsky asked.

"He was raving," Liz interjected. "You saw him. He's a maniac. You can't pay attention to anything he says."

Topolsky directed the next question to her. "Were you aware he'd been shadowing you and your friends?"

"I suppose you'd have cause to know, " Liz shot back, a little more tartly than was called for.

"We have been watching him," Topolsky conceded. "And you were observed visiting this house on numerous occasions."

"That's right. I was doing some work for him."

"Why'd you come back this evening?" Valenti asked. "And you, Evans—what were you doing here?" Both were mute. Valenti stepped toward them. "One of you better start talking, or—"

A voice broke in on him. "Or what?" He and the others turned to see Philip Evans on the steps. "All we need," Valenti muttered.

Philip hastened to his son's side. "You all right, Max? Isabel told me—"

"I'm fine." He smiled weakly. "—now."

Philip turned to Valenti with an air of grievance so self-evidently justified that every right-thinking citizen would certainly support him in it: Liz remembered that he was a lawyer, and she was grateful for it now. "On what grounds are you detaining these children?"

"Just trying to determine if a crime's been committed."

"The way you were talking, it sounds as though they're the suspects."

Valenti made an effort to keep his cool. "We believe Dr. Grunewald may have detained your son with intent to commit bodily harm. But if Max is unwilling to cooperate—"

"I told you," said Max, "I was unconscious. I don't remember any of it."

"There's your answer," said Philip.

Valenti started to reply. Topolsky spoke first. "But Liz wasn't."

Liz opened her mouth. "Liz, you don't have to say anything," Philip cautioned her. So she shut it again.

"Maybe Grunewald had an accomplice," Topolsky suggested. "Someone who lured Max to him." She was staring hard at Liz, who could not meet her eye. Topolsky turned to Max. "Why _did_ you come?" she asked.

Max was staring at Liz. "I thought _she'd_ be here." Liz did not dare to look at him either; her eyes remained fixed on the glossy floor tiles.

"That's enough," Philip declared. "If you have further questions, you can ask them when Max is rested. Needless to say, I would insist on being present. And on seeing to it that Ms. Parker is properly represented. Kids? Time to go." He ushered them to the steps and out the door. The law officers did not try to stop them.

"I can charge Grunewald with attempted assault," said Valenti. "Kidnapping—I don't know."

Topolsky seemed unconcerned. "Let's wait for the psychiatrist's evaluation. I have a feeling the doctor won't be making his rounds for a while."

"If it wasn't for him being a lawyer..." Topolsky nodded in sympathy. "Tell me something, Agent. You ever want to know the truth of a thing so bad it claws at your gut and you just can't let it go?"

"You don't know the half of it." She was gazing at the photo of the UFO convocation, and in particular at the girl in the crowd Liz had thought looked familiar. Then she headed out, with her associate following.

As Valenti started to follow both, he glanced at the photo himself—and it stopped him cold. "Well, I'll be damned," he said. The girl was _her_–a lot younger and brighter-eyed than her experience with the Bureau had left her but, now that Valenti had caught the resemblance, unmistakably the same person. Never in a million years would he have expected that. He filed the information, in case it should be called for at some time, and exited after her and her colleague.

Philip's grey Mercedes had Liz home in minutes. Throughout the ride neither he nor his son had so much as glanced into the back seat. Now as she opened the door Philip spoke to her, but without turning his head. "You know, Liz," he said, "I think it'd be best for everyone if you didn't come around any more."

This stung deeply. "Mr. Evans—"

"I can get an injunction. If it becomes necessary." He was still facing the windshield. And so was Max. Liz restrained herself with an effort from doing something really immature, like crying. As she stepped out onto the sidewalk, Max rolled down his window. She looked toward him hopefully. Maybe everything was all right, after all; maybe—

He had on that scowl of his which was almost a frown. "Guess your experiment was a failure, wasn't it?" he said. "And just think—you won't even be able to publish the results." He rolled up the window without giving her a chance to answer. And she would have had no answer in any case. The Mercedes glided off into the night. That was that, then.

The restaurant was closed, but her father was inside, waiting for her. "Lizzie, finally. You know your friend Maria got herself terminated today?"

Liz had to struggle to recall what that was about; it seemed like a story from another life. "I thought she was cutting back on her hours."

"Wouldn't have been enough to justify keeping her on. What the heck happened between you two?"

"Philosophical difference." That summed it up as well as anything. She looked out the window in the direction Max had gone—for good, she imagined. "And, you know," she said, "for once in her life Maria was right."

Just before bedtime she extracted a specimen of her blood and put it under the microscope to examine. It had been in contact with theirs, and Grunewald claimed theirs was toxic to humans; the claim was probably a product of his mania, but as a good scientist Liz could not dismiss it out of hand, she must continue to observe and to record her observations dispassionately. Yet now, when she needed it most, her scientist's lack of feeling failed her: she was too scared to look.

She heard a tap at her window, but saw no one. _Max!_ she thought; apart from herself and her family, he was the only one besides herself familiar with her rooftop retreat. She stuck her head out the window and looked around eagerly, but he was not there. Someone was, however. "Isabel?" said Liz. "Is that you?"

Isabel was leaning against the wall with her head turned away. "Max sent me," she said, in an oddly clipped manner, and fidgeting with her nails as she spoke. "To pick up that—thing you're holding for him."

Liz showed her disappointment. "He couldn't come himself?"

"You honestly think you have a right to expect that?"

"If I could just explain to him—"

Isabel felt she had borne more than enough. "Liz, just go get it, will you? And make it fast. I'm only doing this for Max."

Liz fetched the Balancer from its hiding place. She had never wanted the responsibility for it anyway—so why did she feel such a sense of loss as she laid it in Isabel's hand? "Thanks," said Isabel brusquely. "Oh, and I'm sorry about the handprint." She crossed the roof and, a moment later, disappeared over the side.

Puzzled, Liz consulted her mirror. Her hair had fallen to one side to expose the back of her neck, which was tattooed with a shining silver residue where Isabel had grabbed her earlier that evening. Luckily, her hair had hidden it from the adults, and the fingermarks were now fading; soon they would be gone.

Liz no longer felt scared. She took her journal from its niche, which she had left unsealed after removing the Balancer, brought the journal to her desk, and opened it to the first blank page. Then she bent over her microscope.

Her blood was still red. But not completely; not any more. Now it had a thread of green winding through it, like the swirl of chocolate in marbled ice cream. She kept staring at the swirl, thinking it was a trick of the eyes and would go away. Finally she accepted that it would not, and perhaps never would. But she could not complain. It was what she had wanted: to have a human test subject. She deserved it; she deserved all that had happened.

She picked up two objects from the desk, sliding one of them out of its frame first, then tore up both of them together, and dropped them into the wastebasket beside her. One of them was her application for the science bowl. The other was a picture of Max Evans.

**Episode 1.18X**

**The Wrong 'Uns**

On Roswell's southwestern outskirts, between the town proper and the endless brown floor of the desert, there stood two square miles of prefabricated frame houses. Outside one of these, behind a wire mesh fence, a small boy was sitting in his yard scooping up some of the dirt with a toy steam shovel: this was how he chose to spend his Saturday mornings.

After a little he noticed a slightly bigger boy with slightly browner skin watching him from the gate. The watcher smiled shyly. His eyes widened as the lock on the gate changed to salt, or something like it, and then crumbled away. The gate swung open. After a moment's hesitation, the boy entered. The smaller boy held the shovel out to him, offering him a turn at play.

The woman the next house over peered out her screen door and saw the two of them sitting together. "¡Dios mio!" she cried. She ran out of the house into the road and across to the neighboring property, halting a few feet short of the open gate, from where she waved to the boy who was visiting. "¡Salgase de ahi!" she shouted. "¡Immediatamente!"

Reluctantly, and with an apologetic smile at his newfound friend, he got up and walked out to her. Then he realized he had taken the steam shovel with him. As he was starting back in to return it, she pulled it out of his hands and flung it at its owner. Then she herded her boy back home and inside. "¡Nunca vuelvas a entrar ahi!" she ordered. "¿Entiendes? ¡Nunca! ¡Ellos son los malos!" She shot a hostile look back at "los malos," or the only one that was in sight, before following the boy in and slamming the door after them.

The steam shovel was lying on its side where the woman had thrown it. The boy whose shovel it was wished for it to stand up, and it did—but it immediately fell over again. He bent sideways for a better view; one of the wheels was bent. He wished for it to straighten itself out, and it did. The toy reared upright and came rolling over to him. He stopped it with a look, picked it and himself up out of the dirt, got up himself, and went inside. He was tired of the game for today.

In the town proper, some older boys were congregated at what until today had been the residence of a fellow band member. "You came," said Nicky. "Thanks." An adult they did not recognize was stuffing Nicky's luggage into the rear of a Navigator that was parked in the drive.

"You going to live with your mom?" asked Alex.

"Nah, they haven't exactly been able to find her. For now I'll be staying with my cousin in Salt Lake. Hey, you guys can visit on spring break. We'll jam, maybe land a gig or two somewhere."

"Definitely," agreed Alex, bobbing his head a few times to denote conviction.

"I mean, it's not like the group's disbanding or anything like that."

"Disband? The Whits? Never!" A silence ensued. It was the silence of an empty house, an empty garage.

But something else was also on Nicky's mind. He leaned close to Alex so the others would not hear. "Alex, those friends of yours. Are they—what my dad thought?"

Alex affected incomprehension. "Friends? Uh, which ones would those be?"

"Isabel Evans," Nicky whispered. "Is she—one of them?"

"Isabel? Is Isabel—" Alex laughed. "Isabel!" He laughed again.

"Yeah, that's what I figured," Nicky said. He reflected. "Woulda been cool, though. So long, bro." He gave Alex a hug (a guys' hug), and then the others took their turns. They said goodbye as if it were not the real thing, as if they were really going to reunite some day, and did not know that Nicky's leaving was the end of all things.

Alex was still feeling a little melancholy at lunchtime as he took the last bite of his Canis Major ("A great dog!" the menu translated; the name had been Liz's invention). He waited at the register for Liz to take his check. Until then he had not noticed that she was the only server. "Where's Maria?"

"She's no longer with us."

"You mean she's dead?"

"No, she's around. Just not—around."

Glancing into the street, she saw the Jeep approaching with Max at the wheel and Isabel alongside. In front of the cafe he slowed down to a crawl. Liz's face took on a look of hope—until she saw the two women jaywalking in front of him. He had only stopped to keep from hitting them, and as soon as they mounted the opposite sidewalk he went on without a sideways glance. Liz's feeling that she had it coming to her did nothing to allay her disappointment, which she tried but failed to conceal. "Guess they're around-not-around too, huh?" Alex ventured.

"Okay," an angry voice interrupted, "come on and tell me what it is I don't know."

"The question on my lips," said Alex.

The first voice was Michael's. Liz looked up in surprise; when she had last seen him he had been at the grill. Now he was standing over her, fuming like a bull. "I have no idea what you're referring to," she said. It did not sound convincing even to her.

"Max and Isabel just drove by without stopping. That's on account of me, isn't it?'

Liz was truly amazed. "_You?_"

"There's something you all aren't telling me. And you think I'm too stupid to figure it out. But I will. You can count on it."

"Once you do," said Alex, "clue me in. No info's being routed my way either."

"Will you just let it go, both of you?" Some of the customers turned their heads. Liz lowered her voice. "If there's anything you need to know, I'll be the first to tell you." An older gentleman at the other end of the counter called for more water, and she went to fetch the carafe from the side counter. Michael returned to the kitchen.

"'Need to know,'" Alex mused to himself. "You suppose Liz could be a spy on covert detail?" He considered the proposition, and her. "Unh-uh," he concluded.

The longer Michael stood alone at the grill, the heavier his sense of grievance became. Liz watched from the order window as he administered harsh treatment to a variety of sandwich ingredients, of which the tomatoes fared worst. At last, taking pity on both them and him, she went back to the kitchen for a talk. "You're right," she admitted, "there _is_ something. But it's got nothing to do with you. It's something that happened between me and Max." Which was true enough as far as it went.

"The two of you have a fight?"

"Kind of," she dodged. "You're better off not knowing." She almost wished she did not.

"And you're sure that's all there is to it?"

"That's all. Well, there is one other thing." It did not pertain, and to her it hardly seemed to matter now, but it was a puzzle she could not let go of. "That V shape in the sky you said was Aries. What made you say that?"

"Nothing. I just knew."

"But it isn't Aries. I can show you. In a book." She knew Michael trusted books.

"Okay," he said, "then show me."

Alex had left the restaurant in search of the Evans siblings—one of them in particular—and found them at a competing establishment two blocks down on Main. Taco UFO (locals pronounced the second word "_you_-foe")was the name listed in the phone book , but the sign at the top of the pole alongside read simply "Tacos." The only seating the place offered was a zigzag array of oak picnic tables outdoors under the sign. Max and Isabel were sharing one of them, facing each other with morose looks. Two uneaten tacos in plastic baskets and many unopened packets of hot sauce lay between them.

"Hey, you two!" Alex greeted them as he walked up. Isabel regarded him balefully and Max not at all. "Mind if I join you?" There was no answer. "Okay, then. I'll just sit here quietly. In kind of a—meditative, nonverbal kind of—impasse—aw, shoot, Max, why don't you and Liz make it up? Whatever the problem is, it can't be worth all this."

Max stared at him as if he had not spoken. "I need to talk to you," he said. "Over there."

He led Alex off to the Jeep and reached in to pull the Balancer from under the front seat. "I need you to hold on to this for a while. There's nobody else I can trust."

"Not even—"

Max cut him off. "No."

Alex grimaced. "I don't know. If my dad should happen to find it—"

Max pressed the object into Alex's hand. "Then see he doesn't find it." He called to Isabel. "Toss you for the Jeep?"

"I'll walk."

"Okay, then I'll see you this evening." He climbed into the driver's seat and started the engine.

All the while, Alex had been attempting to register his objection. "Max? Max, I don't—"

"Don't mind helping out. I know. That's really great of you, Alex." He clapped Alex on the shoulder. Then he sped off in the Jeep. And he still looked morose.

"Yeah," said Alex, "goodbye to you too," said Alex. He felt conspicuous with the Balancer in his hand and stuffed it into a pants pocket, where it strained the seam; he limped a little as he returned to the table and plumped himself down opposite the one remaining customer. "So," he said, "Isabel." She rolled her eyes and sighed heavily.

Liz meanwhile was spending her lunch break in the staff room, giving Michael a crash astronomy tutorial. "This is how Aries looks," she said, pointing to the illustration in her textbook.

Michael studied it for a minute. "Must be a different Aries, then."

"There can't be two of them!"

"I don't care. That V shape is Aries. I feel it!"

Liz saw that resistance was futile. "Okay," she allowed reluctantly, "it may have _something_ to do with Aries. But it's definitely not the constellation as normally observed from Earth. And there's something else strange about it too. We're the only ones able to see it—you three, me, Alex, and Maria." (she assumed the last as a logical corollary).

Michael listened without a word, or a clue; he felt he was in over his head by a long way. "Do you suppose," said Liz (but she was really asking herself), "that it could be some form of radiant energy outside the visible spectrum? And that we can—"

Michael had only heard as far as the word "energy" when a look of eagerness came into his face. "That's what it is! Energy! The V up there and the V down here—they're both the same. The same kind of energy." (Again, he "just knew" this.)

He went on in the identical vein for a while, rambling wherever his thoughts took him (yet always coming back to the word "energy") in a way that was neither systematic nor easy to follow. But Liz stuck with him as best she could, and little by little most of it fell into place. "So the Stones from the cave luminesce," she re-phrased, "when they're in proximity to the locations on the map, because of the energy they contain."

"Exactly!" said Michael.

It made sense to Liz. "And one of them is—"

"The library. I don't know yet where the others are."

"I know one of them!" The realization had just hit her. "It has to be. Angels' Ground!"

"You mean the place where we—where people go to—" He did not like to say it outright in front of Liz.

"Well?" she said. "_Energy?_" Michael saw the sense in this. "Do you have your map with you?" she asked. He did; it was never far from him now. He retrieved it from his jacket, which was hanging on the coat tree next to the door.

Liz looked the map over. "If this is north and this is the library—wait, this isn't right. None of the symbols are in the right place for Angels' Ground."

"Then it isn't one of the energy sources."

"It has to be!" she repeated.

"How do you know?"

"I just—" She stopped; that was what he had said, and she had refused to accept, as regarded Aries. Then she realized something that should have been obvious to her before. "We can test it with the Stones! We'll take them up there, and if they start glowing, then we'll know—"

"Sorry, I can't—I don't have them right now." The words came out of him awkwardly. "They're—in storage."

Liz waited, but that was all he would volunteer, and she sensed that she should not push him. "Okay," she said. "But I'm sure of it, anyway." She pointed at the map again. "So we now know this isn't north. The correct orientation, we won't know until we can identify the symbol for Angels' Ground, which has to be one of the four left." Then she reasoned farther (once she got going, she found it difficult to stop): "I could draw up four different maps, overlay each one on a map of Roswell, and compare for obvious correspondences or discrepancies. That will take time, of course—"

During her speech Michael had been looking increasingly troubled. "Forget about it."

"Why?"

"You've told me too much already. Anything I find out, I may have to use against you—all of you—if it ever comes to that."

This prediction was surprising coming from him, but she saw that it fit in with Grunewald's findings, and her own fears. "Do you think it will come to that?"

"It's what Nasedo wants. And a lot of humans, I'm sure."

"But not you." His face reflected the same confusion it had in his earlier talk with Maria. "Do you, Michael?"

"It doesn't matter what I want. I'd still have to betray you. And that'd make you a traitor too—because you supplied me with the information."

Liz stared gravely at him. "Then that would be between me and my conscience. If that day ever comes, we'll all have to choose sides. We'll all betray someone." She added, more quietly, "Maybe some of us have already."

Michael got up. "Well, it won't be on my account. I think too much of—" He stopped; that would sound corny. "Think too much," he amended. "But don't you think any more about it. Leave the alien stuff to us—to me."

"Understood." This response satisfied him well enough, and he returned to the kitchen, unaware that to Liz's precise mind "Understood" was not synonymous with "Agreed."

Out in front of Taco UFO, Alex continued to sit mutely, since Isabel seemed indisposed to conversation. At length, however, she spoke, though her words were not an incentive to further colloquy. "Don't you have somewhere to be?" she asked. "Other than here, I mean."

After his long experience of her, Alex took this in stride, and set out along a more positive line. "Liz told me about you rescuing your brother. That was pretty brave."

"Trust Liz to keep a confidence." Well, it had seemed like a positive line. Isabel stood as if preparing to go. "Whatever you do, don't tell Michael. He doesn't know the history with Grunewald."

"How could he not know?"

"We hadn't reconnected at the time. If he finds out now, he'll think we've been keeping things from him."

"He thinks so anyway. What's the difference?"

"Do as I tell you! And stop annoying me!" Then Isabel recalled her resolution of three months earlier not to be so imperious, at least with people she knew. "Sorry if that sounded rude."

"No, we certainly wouldn't want to hurt anyone's feelings, would we?"

Isabel looked as if she would have liked to answer him, but she left without doing so. Following her retreating form, his eye also took in the order window, where it paused on a face he knew. "Maria," he said absently to himself—and then, "_Maria?_" He walked up to her.

She displayed a facsimile of her normal smile. "And now Alex. La reunión familiar. Who knew?"

"You moonlighting?" He considered for a moment. "I guess technically this would be sunlighting." He realized this sounded like something Liz would have said.

"Yup, finally shook the old Crashdown, thank God. This place is _so_ much more convenient."

"Better pay? Better hours?"

"Actually, no. And no."

"And farther out of your way. Sure, I see the convenience in that."

A Chevy pick-up pulled into the lot. "Oops, here comes the trail boss. He doesn't like us cowherds socializing on Taco time. Vamos, compadre."

So Alex took to the sidewalk. "Alex Whitman," he muttered gloomily to himself, "social outcast."

Ahead of him he saw Isabel lingering at a playground fence, watching the children inside. He had never pegged her as having maternal leanings. He guessed that she was remembering her own childhood and regretting the one she wished had been hers—as was indeed the case. As she watched, a small girl who was climbing up the slide slipped on one of the rungs, clung desperately to the handrail for a second or two, and then fell. Isabel tensed as if about to act on her behalf, but she did not. The girl landed hard, and tore her sleeve. She began to cry. An older girl, apparently her sister, ran to comfort her.

Alex ambled up beside Isabel. She knew then that he must have seen it all, and she wished he had not. "You again," she said unhappily. And she continued up the sidewalk.

This time, however, he stayed with her. "Me again, yeah. Excuse me for trying to remain a caring friend in the face of continuous rejection."

"You don't understand. You couldn't." For once Isabel was not trying to be rude; this was the most polite reply she could summon up without being dishonest.

"I understand you could have put your oar in back there to keep that girl from hurting herself, and you chose not to."

"It wouldn't have—" She realized that what she was about to say was not true, and she revised it. "—been a good thing," she finished.

"Helping people isn't a good thing?"

Isabel flared at that. "I do help! Or I try. But the right way—the normal way."

"But, Isabel, what's normal for you—"

"Is the same as for everybody else! There aren't special rules for people with—abilities. Just because I can do things doesn't mean I don't know they're—oh, I told you you wouldn't understand."

Alex took a stab in the dark. "Does this have anything to do with what happened at Nicky's? And what did happen there, by the way?"

"Didn't blabbermouth Liz tell you all about it?"

"All she said was—"

Isabel swung on him. "Look, Alex, I'm not Wonder Girl, all right? I can't go around all the time crumbling doors and melting into walls!"

Alex stared at her. "You did that? Wow. That's—impressive."

"Doors and walls are there for a reason."

"To keep other people out?" He took another stab. "Or to keep you in." Isabel did not answer. _Uh-huh_, Alex thought.

After leaving them, her brother stopped by the UFO Center to collect his paycheck and seen someone—at least it looked like him—who was the last person he would have expected to see there. He was studying a diorama of a crashed saucer and three dummy aliens (to whom Max had privately given the names of Isabel, Michael, and himself). Max hailed him tentatively. "Dad?"

Philip was more surprised to see him than the other way around. "Thought you were off duty today."

That he had probably timed his visit on that assumption did not occur to Max until later. He held up his paycheck. "What are you doing here? Thought you considered all this stuff—"

"Moonshine? Well, maybe. But still worth examining, don't you think?"

"This is all tourist bait down here. The serious material, if you can call it that, Milt keeps under lock and key." He nodded toward the upstairs office.

"You have anything by Doc Grunewald?"

Max's guard went up instantly. The question had been put with all apparent casualness, but Max knew his father too well to be fooled by that. "Grunewald?"

"He's written on the subject, hasn't he?"

"I wouldn't know."

His father stared levelly at him. "Son, what really happened out at his place?"

"Told you, I was out cold. He must have drugged me."

"Sounds as though he might have been planning to conduct some kind of experiment on you. It wouldn't be the first time. Though you may not remember—"

"I remember," Max said grimly.

"He always was suspicious of the pair of you. I dismissed him as a nut—well, he _is_ a nut. But is he completely nutty?" The question came too close to the mark for Max's comfort. "I'd like you to recount for me if you can the exact sequence of events before you blacked out."

"So you can shoot holes in my testimony? I told you, Dad, I remember nothing. Nothing at all."

Philip smiled with the bland assurance of someone who had anticipated the answer, and every other possible answer, before it was given. "Fine," he said. "We'll talk about it later. When it's not so painful for you. See you at dinner tonight." As he strolled out, he left Max feeling like a first-time ship's passenger in choppy seas.

He and Philip did not discuss it again at dinner; indeed, nobody talked about much of anything. The two children remained as depressed as they had been the rest of the day, and their depression seemed to spread to the entire table.

After Isabel retired, her mother looked in to find her regarding herself in her curtained mirror with no more joy than she had shown while picking at her rice casserole. "Are you all right, honey?" Diane asked. Isabel forced a not very successful smile. "I saw at dinner something was bothering you. If you're worried about that man Grunewald, your father assures me he's safely locked up."

"It's not him, it's—" Isabel did not want to tell, but she could not stop there. "—my body." And she still had not told it. But what could she say that her mother would understand, that would not terrify her and endanger them all?

"What about your body?" her mother inquired.

"I hate it," said Isabel. "Hate it hate it hate it hate it." For additional emphasis, she flung herself onto her wire frame bed.

"Why, Isabel Evans!" Diane came to stand beside her and placed a supportive arm around her shoulder. "There's nothing wrong with your body." She scrutinized the reflection in the glass. "You're a little wide-hipped, is all. It runs in the—I mean, many of us are prone to it."

Isabel had forgotten about that: great, one more thing to be unhappy about. "Thanks, but that wasn't exactly what I meant."

"Then what?"

Isabel shook her head, and shook it again. She should never have brought it up; that was what Max would say. But Max said lots of things. It was easy for him; he was aloof from it all. He did not want to live the life of the typical American teen; he just wanted to pass for one. "You'll look back on these as the best days of your life," the principal promised her and the other students at the all-class assembly every year, and Isabel had taken the counsel to heart. She wanted to make the most of her time there, to make it something to remember—because who knew what would happen to her after, what she would become? She had no models to go by: not her mother or her grandmother or any of her friends or teachers or—God forbid—Agent Topolsky. None of them had in her what she had: her abilities, as she called them, deliberately avoiding the word "powers." Or, rather, "power" in the singular—because that was what it was: a single thing manifesting itself in different forms.

—and now it was changing. (As if it had not been enough to deal with before!) Isabel no longer had a clear sense of what it was today, or what it would be—what _she_ would be—tomorrow. And her mother (who was _not_ her mother, any more than her father was her father; but this was something else Isabel chose not to think about)—her dear, well-meaning mother, so certain she knew what her daughter's problem was—she was off on an entirely wrong track. But how could Isabel disillusion her?

"And all those boys," she was saying, "who are climbing all over one another for a date with you? I suppose they don't bolster your confidence?"

_Not in the way it matters_, thought Isabel. _And besides, boys..._ "Boys," she said aloud, "are..."

"Yes, they are," her mother agreed without having to hear the rest. "They most certainly are." Then her face took on an unaccustomed slyness. "Of course, there is Alex Whitman."

"Alex?" He had not figured in Isabel's thoughts at all. "What about Alex?"

"He seems to have a good head on his shoulders."

"Alex! _Oh_, yes. He knows all there is to know—especially about me. Just ask him! He's _full_ of good advice. And always so _helpful_—always wanting to be doing things for me. Why can't he just leave me alone?"

"Have you asked him to?"

"Are you kidding? Yes, I've asked him!" Isabel did not care for the drift of the conversation at all. But it had taken her mind off her other worry.

"And does he, when you ask him to?"

"Well—yes! But he never goes very far—because when I need him again, there he is. What on earth did I do to—"

"Merit such devotion? Nothing, probably. But that's how it usually works. Strange, isn't it?" She smiled in apparent mystification, but Isabel was not fooled—and had not fooled her either: her mother knew as well as Isabel did that she did not really want Alex to leave her alone. But what _did_ she want of him? That, her mother did not know, nor did Isabel herself.

During school hours she was keeping what Alex called bad company: Ursula Slavin's clique, which Isabel had taken over as her own. At lunchtime on Thursday of the same week, waiting together in the cafeteria line, they filled the room with their chatter and laughter, which was a little too loud and a little too shrill to be wholly genuine. "But, _Ursula_!" Isabel protested, in response to her cliquemates' unsubtle insinuations. "Of _course_ I'll be on the prom committee with you guys. How could you _doubt_ me?"

"Well, you've been so _busy_ lately," Ursula sniffed. "With those _other_ friends of yours."

"But I don't _have_ any other friends! _You_ know that."

"What about Maria _Deluca_? Of the _flea-market_ Delucas? And Michael _Guerin_? The creature from the _trailer_ park?" Ursula's face took on a solemn expression. "You've been _observed_, Isabel," she warned. "People are _talking_."

"Who's talking?"

"Well—_us_. And we're your _friends_. I can only _imagine_—oh, my _God_, here's _another_ one." Alex, with a musician's instinctive timing, had just added himself to the line. "_Honestly_, Isabel. Alex _Whitman_? Does he have even a _prayer_ of ever being perceived as a social _asset_?" Alex could tell that she was talking about him, could imagine the kind of thing she was saying, and was disappointed in Isabel for listening to it, as he was often disappointed in her. But then, he was often disappointed in himself, and so he did not hold it against her much.

If he had been able to hear the conversation he would have counted it in her favor that she put up some resistance. "Alex is nice! He's—his own man."

"_Fine_," said Ursula, with a catty smile at the other girls, "as long as he's not _yours._" Isabel let the matter rest there, though she felt uncomfortable about it.

After stocking their trays, the girls headed for their usual table, with Ursula in the lead, but she stopped dead in her tracks on seeing it occupied by a small, dark girl Isabel did not remember ever having seen before. "Oh, my _God_," said Ursula. "An _e.t._"

This disconcerted Isabel momentarily. "What?"

"A _freshman._" Ursula did not know the girl personally; she could just _tell._ "Sitting at _our_ table. Isabel, go read her the _act._" Isabel seemed to hesitate. "Go _on_, Isabel! The way you did _last_ time."

All the girls' eyes were on her, and so were Alex's. For some reason Isabel did not want him watching her just then. "Let's take another table," she suggested.

"_Isabel!_ We have our _status_ to uphold. If we let one of _them_ take our place, soon we won't _have_ a place."

"But she was there first."

Ursula stared at her. "_So?_" Isabel realized then that further appeal to common decency would be pointless. "Don't tell me you're feeling some kind of _sympathy_ for her?" Ursula asked.

"No, that would spoil the image, wouldn't it?" For the first time Isabel saw Ursula as she knew Alex did (he had made no secret of it), and she was mad at him for that. Why did he have to be there? What was he, her conscience or something?

Ursula stepped up to her as closely as her tray would permit. "Isabel, what is _wrong_ with you today? _You're_ the one that called them e.t.s to start with. Which I must say is _highly_ appropriate. Go send her _away._" Her tone, and the look in her eyes, grew darker. "Otherwise we might start thinking there's something weird about _you._"

Her threat hit home. Isabel cast her a hostile glare, which looked genuine for a moment, but then changed to the insincere, put-on kind—which restored Ursula's trust in her. Putting Alex out of her mind, almost, she approached the table in a manner that reminded him of the Queen of Hearts in _Alice._ "..._unless_ it's this little e.t.," she said. The freshman girl looked up at her with a pair of big grey eyes, which seemed even bigger by contrast with her tiny features. "You're new to this planet," continued Isabel, "so you couldn't be expected to know. But just for future reference, this table is ours. We sit here every day at this hour."

"I know," said the girl. "I've seen you." And she placidly resumed eating. Ursula and the others made expostulating noises. Alex, who had been listening with concern—for Isabel as well as her target—smiled with relief. This one could take care of herself.

"And you still sat down here?"

"Why not?"

"Allow me to explain this to you in terms you can understand." Ursula's eyes glinted. This was the "act" she had looked forward to hearing Isabel deliver again. Alex, to whom it was new, listened less happily. "_We_ are upperclassmen. _We_ are the rulers of this planet. _You_ are a freshman—an alien species—an inhabitant of the most insignificant planet in the most obscure galaxy in the known universe. You have no rights. You exist only by our sufferance. We will control the horizontal. We will control the vertical. We will tell you where to walk, where to sit, when to come, and when to go. So—" Glancing inadvertently at Alex, she found his eye trained sternly on her, and she faltered. "So—so—" She found herself powerless to continue. Damn him, anyway!

Seeing her dilemma, Ursula stepped into the breach. "So either you do as we say or go back to your own planet." She ended with a glance at Isabel which suggested that her queenship of the group was due for reassessment. One of the other girls grabbed a flyer from the bulletin board—a cartoon of the famed Roswell alien, bug-eyed and chinless (which Isabel liked to annoy her brother with by telling him it proved people knew about him), and handed it to Ursula, who tried to stick it to the girl's back. It would not hold.

The girl did not bother with them. She was gazing up at Isabel inquiringly. "Go on!" Isabel said. "Go!"—and then, in a whisper, "Please?"

The girl shrugged. "I was finished anyway." She wiped her mouth daintily, then stood and picked up her books. "For today, I mean," she added, with a glance at Ursula. As she passed between the two of them, she laid her fingers lightly on Isabel's hand. _You can't change what you are_, she said—but she did not move her lips. Isabel stared at her in shock. The girl drew her attention to the salt and pepper shakers on the table. One was white, one black; they traded colors. The girl smiled at Isabel ever so slightly and then walked off with the same placid, unhurried air.

Isabel stared after her. She hardly heard the voice at her side—Ursula's, it must have been—squealing, "My God, did she actually _touch_ you? Isabel?" After a few seconds she sat down with the others and put up a front of ordinary sociableness, but her mind was (so to speak) in a galaxy far, far away.

Alex had seen that something had happened between the two of them, but had seen no more than that. He hurried out after the girl and found her standing in the shade of the building, gazing out at the blue and gold umbrellas of the lunch patio with an expression he was unable to fathom. "What'd you do to Isabel?" he demanded.

The girl regarded him with the same imperturbable manner she had shown inside. "That's Isabel's to tell. If she chooses." Then she walked off again. Isabel was watching from inside, wondering what had been said. But she would not ask Alex, and she certainly could not ask the girl. She would put it completely out of her mind.

Liz, on the other hand, never put anything out of her mind if she could help it. This included Michael's questions about the cave map. After school that day she stopped by the Roswell Historical Society, which had its office in a tiny building at a corner of Summerhaven Park. It was only open two afternoons a week, not counting Saturdays, and this happened to be one of them. The docent on duty Thursdays was an elderly woman with glasses and a librarian-like air. "I'm doing a project on the town's history," Liz lied, "and I have questions about some of the local landmarks. Like, oh, the library. And Angels' Ground..."

While she was so occupying herself, Isabel was trying to manage the feelings that had been growing in her all day, the more that she thought about what she had vowed not to think about. The revelation had burst on her so suddenly and so unexpectedly, she had been unprepared to accept it, especially in the middle of the school day, surrounded by her friends (so-called), caught up in her painstakingly cultivated conventional teen's existence, in which her noontime encounter had no place; in other words, she had to "think outside the box," as the saying went, in order to think about it at all. And she had had to fight past her immediate, instinctive reaction—which was one of fear, plain and simple—to reach the sea of conflicting emotions that tossed inside her. Now she was almost drowning in them.

She had met a girl like herself! That was exciting, because it was a first—and scary, because the only alien they had known about other than themselves was a serial killer—and ego-threatening, because she was no longer the only known female of her species—and embarrassing, because when she had met the other she had been trying, obviously and clumsily, to pass for human, trying to deny her own identity: this, more than anything else perhaps, was what she had been reluctant to face.

She knew she should tell Max; she longed to, in a way. But she felt constrained to keep it a secret. If she could talk to the girl alone, with nobody else around, she could find out things. On the other hand, what questions would she ask? And would she be able to understand the answers? She doubted if the girl would let her get that close anyway, now. Telling Max would not help: he would try to simplify things and end up making them more complicated; it was what he was best at.

But he was also her brother. And she felt a need to talk to someone. So she slipped into his room that night long after they had "gone to bed," but knowing he would still be awake. She hunched down on the throw rug beside the bed with her knees drawn up to her chin. "Oh, Max," she said, "I did a stupid thing today."

"So what else is new?" Isabel did not smile. "Stupid how?"

"I was mean to someone. To a freshman."

"Oh, well, if it was just a freshman..." Isabel smiled a little this time. "You're not a mean person. Why would you act like you were?"

She tilted her head and rested one cheek on her knee. "To be normal."

"How many normal people have you ever actually met? I have a feeling the supposedly normal ones are the exceptions. And probably they'd rather be different, would rather be noticed."

"'Supposedly.' Mmm, maybe," said Isabel. She noticed that the photo on his nightstand was lying face down. She lifted it to look at. "Still, if I could be the girl in this picture..."

"Liz?"

"Is this who she is?"

Max studied the photo for a moment. "No. Nobody could be that girl." He returned it to its place, face down. "Why on earth would you want to be that?"

"On earth," she repeated, with meaning. "Why do you think? So I won't have to deal with who I _am._"

"But I thought you were okay with it. I mean, we haven't talked about it in a while—"

Isabel remembered vividly. "Since we were ten. Then, I felt like I was someone really special, only no one else knew it, but some day they would and I'd be, like, their queen. It's not like that, Max. And I can't stay in denial about it. I'm changing. My body is changing. "

"Mine is too. Happens to everybody at our age—the biology book says."

"Not like this. I feel the power growing in me, but I hardly know what it is or what it can do—what I'm capable of. Neither do you. And of course Michael..."

"Others might know. Others of our kind—if we knew of any. But, unfortunately—" Isabel had opened her mouth to speak. "What?"

She shook her head. "Nothing." She stood. "Thanks for listening, Max." She hurried out of the room. Her brother looked after her curiously. Sometimes he understood her, and sometimes, like now, he was obliged to defer understanding.

Within the hour she was at the school auditorium, pushing Alex out onto the stage in front of the entire student body. He tried to bolt for the wings, but Isabel grabbed him and held him fast. "You can too dance," she said. "Try it and you'll see." And suddenly he _was_ dancing, beautifully, and the crowd was cheering and applauding. "Now take off your clothes," she said. And suddenly they _were_ off and he was in his t-shirt and shorts before God and everybody.

And then something began to happen to his body: it began to grow new parts. A big fin, thrusting out of his front, tearing the boxers, and an even bigger fin, thrusting out of his back, tearing the shirt. The crowd was chortling and jeering. Then his jaws began to grow. They grew out a yard from the rest of his face and turned toward Isabel, somehow pulling the rest of his body after them. Then they opened wide—and swallowed her whole.

...Alex sat up in bed and found himself sweating. He discerned, by the night-light, a girl sitting on the madras spread. "Isabel? Is that you?"

"Hush," she said. She laid a soothing hand on his cheek. "You're only dreaming."

"Doesn't feel like a dream."

"It has to be. You know that's the only place I can open up to you."

"Were you responsible for that coming-out party just now?" He knew she must have been.

"Sorry about that. But I wanted you to understand how it feels—how _I_ feel sometimes. It can make me—I might say things that aren't very—" She struggled to say it.

"Hey," said Alex. "It's okay." And it was; Isabel saw in his eyes that it was. She could have wept for gratitude, if she had not been Isabel. "Wish I could do something to help."

Isabel had been hoping he would say that. "Actually..."

She did not have to finish this time either. "Ah," he said. "Not drawn by uncontrollable primal lust, then." Isabel gave him "that look," as Alex called it. "Hey, you said it's a dream."

Isabel felt a momentary doubt over what she was about to do, but she had argued it out with herself beforehand and concluded it to be justified. She needed Alex's help, and to get it she would have to tell him what she had kept from Max, and would rather have kept to herself. But at least she could trust Alex to be content with what she told him, and leave the rest hers; he was always willing to give her as much space as she needed—or less, when she needed that. He was really rather wonderful, and in the past she had not appreciated him sufficiently: so she had decided just before her visit. But she had also reflected that perhaps it only seemed that way tonight because she wanted something from him.

Reservations or no, she was determined to go through with it; she had to know. "Alex," she said, "that freshman today. The one I—the one in the cafeteria. She's a—a not-of."

"Not of what?"

"Not of this Earth."

The term was new to Alex. "'Not-of.' I like that. You mean she's one of you. Okay, so?"

Isabel stared at him. "You're not surprised?"

He was not, very. He had known there was something odd about the girl; odd but recognizable. "Well, you know how it is," he said. "When you've seen one alien..."

Isabel suspected he was deliberately trying to be annoying, but for her present purpose she was willing to allow him that. "I'd like you to find out all you can about her—who she is, where she's from, where she lives. I know you're able to hack into the school's computer." In fact, Alex had an easier means of access he had stumbled onto accidentally, but he did not let it be generally known. "Will you," asked Isabel, "as a favor to me?"

As Alex was debating it in his mind, weighing the ethical and the erotic considerations, a hazy figure with a golden aura around it materialized at the foot of his bed. "Okay, you win," he said to Isabel. "This _is_ a dream."

"It is now," she said wonderingly.

The figure became more distinct, and they found themselves in company with the person they had just been talking about. "Wouldn't it be simpler to ask _me_?" she said. She smiled at Isabel so freely that it was as if Isabel's harassment that day had had no real meaning, and Isabel began to believe it had not. "I'm Neila McFadden," she went on. "I'm from—well, the first Earth city I knew was Richmond, Virginia. As for where I live, you can come and see for yourself." And she supplied the address, which was located in the complex of low-cost housing southwest of town.

Isabel drove out there after school the following day. A few miles past the city limit, she took the precaution of pulling to the side of the highway and waiting for the next several vehicles to pass before returning to the highway, reasonably satisfied that she was not being tailed. Best to be cautious: Topolsky was back, Valenti had never gone away, and Nasedo—who knew where he was?

Soon she exited into the grid of narrow lanes separating the ten-square lots. She looked for street signs but saw none, and few visible numbers on the small houses. However, she was in luck—or perhaps instinct (or some wilder talent) came to her aid. She stopped in front of a house from whose stoop a plain-faced Hispanic woman was keeping a close eye on a boy at play in the yard.

Isabel left the Jeep and crossed the road to their front walk, lined with pebbles. She called to the woman on the stoop. "Excuse me? Can you point me to the McFadden house?" On receiving nothing back but a blank stare, she strove to dredge up her recollections of freshman Spanish. "¡Buenos dias, señora! ¿Por favor, donde esta la casa del McFadden?"

The woman's eyes grew wide, and she erupted into a stream of exclamatory utterances too rapid for Isabel to understand fully. "¡Largo de ahi!" she shouted. "¡Esos son malos!" This was followed with a string of epithets.

"Perdona me—" Isabel began.

"¡Esos son malos!" the woman repeated. "¡Malos! ¡Malos!" She waved the boy to her, swept him inside ahead of herself, and slammed the door.

Isabel returned to the Jeep and was lifting a leg to climb in when a sturdy-looking old woman shouted to her from her rocking chair on the porch of the house the Jeep was parked at. "She's right, you know," the woman said. "Ain't too smart, that 'un, but she knows that much."

Isabel walked up to her. "Sorry, what was it she said? My Spanish—"

"Wrong 'uns, she called 'em. And wrong 'uns is what they is."

"Are they? Why's that?"

The old woman shrugged. "'cause God made 'em that way, I reckon."

"Where's their place?"

"Next one down that side. One with the big wire fence around it."

"Thanks."

"But you stay clear of there, honey. Them's no good. Them's—"

"Wrong 'uns, got it." _So much for positive intergalactic relations_, she thought—and that applied to her too.

She walked across to the gate, feeling less assured than before she had come, and stopped uncertainly. One part of her was anxious to go in; the other part was just anxious.

"If Alex was here," she reasoned with herself, "he'd say, 'Isabel, are you sure you want to do this?' And I'd say, 'Yes, Alex, I'm sure—and it's none of your concern anyway.' And he'd say, 'Isabel, everything you do concerns me. You're the woman of my dreams—literally.'" She shook her head. "No, Alex would never say that. He'd say, 'But, Isabel, aren't you scared?' And I'd say, 'Of course I am! I know nothing about this girl—except that she's like us. And she did invite me.'" She shook her head more emphatically. "This is a waste of time," she said. "I'm going in there." She continued standing. "I am." And finally, "_Now._" As if that had been the magic word, the gate latch lifted and the gate swung open. "Wal, come on in," said Isabel on its behalf.

As she advanced up the dirt walk, the front door opened and Neila appeared, smiling. "What kept you?"

"Should I have RSVP'ed first? I don't know the right etiquette for dream invitations." She thought again. "It _was_ a dream, wasn't it?"

Neila left the question unanswered. "Come in," she said.

Isabel stared through the open doorway. It was, she sensed, the passage to a different life—and a different her; that beyond it she would lose herself—or find herself, depending on how one saw it; after all, Eve's expulsion from Eden was also a release. Isabel wanted to find out what lay waiting for her in there; she had other wants too, some of them tending in the other direction, but at the moment that one was paramount. So she went inside.

Nothing terrifying befell her immediately. The lair of the "wrong 'uns" was benign, not sinister, full of sunlight pleasantly softened by the paper blinds. These were of a style like nothing Isabel had ever seen, and so were the other furnishings: patchwork-like, triangulated, nearly weightless. "So this is what houses look like on our world," she said.

"Do they? I didn't know. I copied this from _Better Homes and Gardens._"

She seemed to be waiting for something—for a request from Isabel, for the right moment, for _something._ This made Isabel restive, and she came to the point right away. "You know why I'm here, right? Because I'm not sure I do."

"To learn," Neila said simply. "You came here to learn."

Isabel nodded; she _had_ known, after all. "I don't think I'm ready. Not yet."

"If you weren't, you wouldn't have come."

"But this power in me—"

"The Balance."

"The Balance." She had known that too. "It's so strong. So destructive."

Her way of putting it seemed to surprise Neila a little. "It can be," she acknowledged. If you want it so."

"What I want," Isabel said, almost in desperation, "is to keep from hurting anyone."

"If you're holding a gun and don't know how to use it, will that stop you hurting someone? Come to the kitchen. I'll make us a pot of tea."

She did this in the conventional way—except for the unusual quantity of pepper she put into the brew. "Why go through the whole process?" asked Isabel. "Can't you just—"

"Of course. But it's never quite the same. Hadn't you noticed?"

Isabel laughed. "Yes, but I thought it was just me."

"Some things," said Neila, "require time." She said no more than that, but stood watching the kettle and waiting for the mix to boil.

Isabel knew it was time. She took a deep breath. "Okay, then. I guess I'm ready. When do we start?"

"We already have."

"When will it end?"

Neila shook her head. "There is no end, that we can see."

They took their tea together in the front room, seated on what Isabel guessed to be a sofa. "I'll teach you all I know," said Neila. "There will be others who know more. You'll discover them in time."

"Like your mother?"

"I never had a mother. Or a father. I was ship-born."

"You mean you were born—out there?"

"No, after it landed. A long way from Roswell. though. So was my brother—_adoptive_ brother." She regarded Isabel curiously. "Weren't you?"

"We don't know. It might have been a ship. But it wasn't where they found the wreckage. We've searched. It must have been some place farther out."

"Was it just you and your brother?"

"_Adoptive_ brother. And Michael."

"Yes, I was forgetting him. Will you tell them about me, do you think?"

"No," Isabel said. "That is, not yet. Have you told anyone about me?"

A small boy ran in from the back hall. Until then Isabel had not guessed he was there. "He's the only one I have to tell," said Neila. "Aluben, say hello to my friend Isabel." Isabel heard a shy _'lo_, but only inside her head. "Ben doesn't talk much—aloud, that is."

Isabel had always had difficulty communicating with children, mute or not. "Hi there, big fella. How you doing?" was the best greeting she could come up with.

"He was sick this morning. That's why you didn't see me at school today."

"He seems fine now." In fact, he had begun running in circles around them, and Isabel was trying to shut her ears to the relentless tattoo of his feet on the hard floor.

"Oh, we don't _stay_ sick. You didn't know that?" Neila gave something like a sigh. "We have a long road ahead of us."

"My brother brought someone back from the dead once," Isabel offered, feeling the need to show she was not as backward as her new friend supposed.

"Yes, I heard about that. I'd been wanting to meet you ever since. Pretty reckless of him, wasn't it?"

"It was," Isabel admitted. "_Brothers._" They both laughed.

The one that was Neila's, having tired of running, went to the dining room bureau (that is, what Isabel assumed to be a bureau) and took out a bag of building blocks, which he poured onto the floor and proceeded to play with as any child might, almost: after stacking them as high as he could, he changed them into balls, which promptly fell and rolled away in all directions; he changed them back into blocks, crawled around to collect them, and stacked them again, only to change them into balls and make them fall again; and so on, without end. "It seems to surprise him every time," Neila observed.

Isabel envied him. "He makes it look so easy."

"It _is_ easy."

"Not for me it isn't."

"Then we'll have to make it easier." She rested her cup and saucer on the coffee table (which Isabel had had no trouble recognizing; apparently coffee tables were impossible to disguise). "First lesson," Neila announced. "Change the cup and saucer to your favorite color. You can do that, can't you?"

"Of course!" Isabel felt offended that anyone would have to ask.

She bent her focus on the objects for a few seconds, and they turned pink. "No," said Neila, "I mean your true favorite." The objects then turned a dark purple, almost black. "Ultraviolet," Neila said approvingly. "Now the table." In a few seconds it matched the tea things on it. "And now the walls. _All_ the walls."

Isabel's mind resisted. "That's too much!"

"No, it isn't. You just have to picture it. Not just on the outside, but inside, where all the tiny little—" She searched for the right words.

"At the molecular level?"

"That's what they call it!"

Isabel, who was no science whiz herself, wondered for a moment whether Neila knew as much as Isabel had been giving her credit for. _Well, we're aliens_, she thought, _not Rhodes scholars._

She turned her attention to the wall opposite them. "Start with the wood," Neila instructed her. Isabel shut her eyes and concentrated; soon the image became clear to her in every detail. "Now the plaster." This was a little more difficult for some reason, but she achieved it. "And now the paint." This was easy, since Isabel had done some painting herself. "Now," said Neila, "will it to change. All of it, on every wall. It's no different than the cup and saucer. In fact, it's easier, because all you're doing, when it comes down to it, is repainting."

Isabel found herself straining. It should have been easy for her, but it was not. Superficial as the change was, it was a harder task than, for example, melting a door, because it was at once more subtle and more widespread; she could see the big picture but had trouble holding on to it. At last she managed to keep it in mental view for more than a flash, and her will carried; the new color washed down the walls as if someone had flung a tub of paint at them—but the picture slipped out of mind before she was done and the wash stopped in the middle, leaving the walls two-toned: purple on top, yellow on the bottom.

Ben ran to Neila and buried his head in her chest. _Bad_, she heard. "Don't be frightened," she soothed him, "it's just colors." She glanced back at Isabel. "Your shade is too truthful for him," she explained. "Don't worry about it. Go on." Isabel tried, but the color crept down only a little farther. "No! You're trying to _persuade_ yourself you can do it. And if you have to do that, you can't. Just _accept_ that you can. Slide back the door of your cell." Isabel did not understand—until she did it. Then it was exactly as Neila had described: a sudden escape from confinement into a limitless universe, of which she was in control. Almost before she could take another breath, her color was flowing all the way to the floor and was all around them.

But now Ben was crying. "You don't like it?" said Neila. "Then you pick one." Ben thought a moment. "Cat?" Neila repeated. This puzzled her for a moment, and then she got it. "Oh, _cat_!" She laughed. "It's a neighbor's," she told Isabel. Then she shot her eye around the room and decked the walls in alternating streaks of orange and grey.

"Please!" said Isabel. "Show _some_ taste." She changed the streaks to a highly tasteful pink. Neila, not to be outdone, changed them to a sky blue. The two kept up the contest, working their way through the spectrum, until at last both timed their changes to happen at the same instant, and their clashing energies exploded together in a confusion of colors like an every-dimensional rainbow.

Ben clapped his hands; he liked that. He and Neila laughed, and Isabel laughed with them. Now she felt up for anything. "What next?" she asked.

"Next. Hmm...I know! You'll make it colder in here."

"I tried that once. I couldn't do it."

"But you're free now. You've opened the door." Isabel knew it was true, and that she would never go back into confinement again; she would have sooner died.

"Imagine absolute cold," Neila directed, "and begin moving toward it." And Isabel did so; it was easy—almost ridiculously easy. "Closer," said Neila. "And still closer." Ben was now shivering. "Ben, you know how to warm yourself! Do it." Shortly he ceased shivering.

"You can stop now," Neila told Isabel. But the temperature continued to drop. Ice was forming on the walls and the ceiling. Neila became alarmed. "Isabel, stop!" But Isabel seemingly could not; her eyes were fixed and her body was vibrating like a hummingbird's, too rapidly for the vibration to be seen.

Neila took action, meeting Isabel's power play with one of her own. At once the temperature began to rise. The icicles cracked. The noise broke Isabel's trance. She looked around to see the walls running with water. Within seconds it had evaporated and the room was back to normal. Isabel felt as if she had been riding a roller coaster and locked in a steam press at the same time. "What happened?" she asked.

"The power was controlling you. You must keep it in check at all times, otherwise you'll get swept away by it. That's why it's called the Balance." She gazed at Isabel admiringly. "You're stronger than I expected. Much stronger than me. Almost a warrior."

Isabel began to blush, and then found she could control that too (which would come in handy some time, she was sure). "I wonder what Alex would say if he knew."

"Your human friend? You mustn't tell him. Anything we reveal, they only use as a weapon against us."

"Yes, I've been told that before." And as then, she reserved judgment, especially where Alex was concerned. "What about seeing into their minds? How do I get better at that?" She was still thinking of Alex.

"That isn't a power that can be developed. It's a bond that either exists or doesn't between you and the other mind."

"And what about dreams? I can visit other people in their dreams, and Max can't."

"No, only women possess the dream power. It _can_ be developed, but only in a wrong way—to twist other people's dreamspaces and corrupt their minds completely." She shivered. "I've never seen it, but I've been told about it."

"I could bring them good dreams instead of bad ones," Isabel proposed.

Neila stared gravely at her. "That's how it's done."

Isabel was silent. Once or twice she herself had fallen prey to that temptation; she wondered if Neila knew. From now on she would have to remain in command of herself and her abilities. After all, she was almost a warrior.

Nevertheless, she volunteered to cook dinner for the family that evening, and it was ready almost before they turned around. Max watched with deep misgivings as she carried in the last of the casseroles (using a pair of pot holders for show). "How'd you get it done so fast?" her mother asked.

Isabel smiled brightly. "Who knows? Maybe I'm a witch." Her brother flashed her a cautionary look which she ignored.

Philip began to serve himself. "This one's not hot."

"Isn't it?" Isabel laid a hand on it. "Feels hot to me." Her father tested it again—and quickly drew his hand back. "Did it burn you?" said Isabel. "Sorry."

"Wasn't like this a second ago," he said.

"But it must have been!" said Diane. She looked around helplessly. "Mustn't it?"

"Yeah," Philip agreed, "must have." But he sounded incredulous.

Isabel continued to ignore Max's disapproving eye. "Dig in, everybody!" she chirruped gaily.

After dinner the two shared dish duty, but Isabel had everything washed and dried in a few seconds. Her brother beckoned her into the adjoining laundry room, out of their parents' hearing, and spoke to her in a whisper. "What exactly do you think you're doing?"

"Dishes," she said blithely.

"You have to stop it! They're getting suspicious."

"Let them. I'm tired of pretending I can't do things. Tired of crawling when I could be walking." Before today she had not known she felt like that. "Doesn't it ever get to you?"

"Of course it does. Things could be so easy for us. So many things."

"You said we should develop our powers, didn't you?"

"Yes, but not to the point where we give ourselves away. We can't take that risk."

"'Can't'!" Isabel repeated derisively. "With you everything's always 'can't do this,' 'can't do that'! I say it's time to see what we _can_ do." She sailed off before he could answer. Max stared at the finished dishes with more concern than a casual bystander would have supposed they merited. This was one of those times for not understanding his sister.

As for Isabel, she was pumped up with the conviction that she was beginning to understand herself for the first time. Lying in her room, she thought only of her next session with Neila—except for a moment's self-congratulation at not having told Max about her. That had been the right decision; he must never know.

The same evening, in the kitchen of the Crashdown, Liz distracted Michael from his work by proudly reporting her discoveries in the Historical Society's archives. "I checked out the sites on the map—that is, the two we know about, and—"

Michael was predictably irritated. "Didn't I tell you to leave that to—"

"Yes, but listen! Both places have a record of strange occurrences. Electrical disturbances, unexplained noises, car batteries dying for no reason—that happens at Angels' Ground—"

Michael grinned. "Yeah, I've used that one myself."

Liz felt he was not taking her seriously enough. "Michael! Don't you see what this means?"

He shrugged. "Shows I was right." But he had been convinced of that before the proof.

"All the sites _are_ energy sources. I'll bet every one has stories like that connected with it."

Despite the lightness of his manner, Michael was impressed: Liz had come through once again, and without his having expected it. He still wished she had listened to him—but he could not wish she had not found out what she had. "Did you ask if there were any other places around here where weird things have happened?"

"Michael, we're in Roswell, the alien capital of the world. There are reports of weird incidents _everywhere._ We'll have to find the other sites first. Then we can look them up specifically."

"Liz!" her father called from the front. She started to go.

"Thanks," said Michael. "I mean it. But I still don't want you involved in this alien stuff."

She turned in the doorway with a forlorn smile. "Too late for that now," she said. The door swung shut after her. _Max_, thought Michael. _She must be talking about Max._

He hitched a ride to Angels' Ground that night, at an hour ungodly enough for the last loving couples to have finished their business. He hiked to the top and seated himself cross-legged at the rim overlooking the town, where he meditated at length on what Liz had told him, together with what other information he had gleaned. He had laid two maps down in front of him: the replica of the cave painting and a street grid of Roswell. Following Liz's proposed strategy, he tried postulating first one and then another of the map symbols as representing the location where he was.

Suppose it were the lines like whipcords? Then north would be at the top left. However, if it were the row of boxes, north would be at the top right, and the distance to the library symbol would be shorter, which meant the scale would be smaller—or would it be larger? If it were the whipcords, the boxes would be northwest of them; if it were the boxes, the spiral would be in the same place the whipcords would be if—

Michael felt his mind give way. He clutched the back of his head. "Too much!" he shouted.

And someone heard him. "Doing some surveying?" she asked as she walked up at his back.

Michael did not have to look this time. "Ms. Topolsky—again." He slid the cave map under the other one. "Just practicing my map reading. It's for a class project."

"Past curfew again," Topolsky observed. "_'way_ past."

"So arrest me."

She shook her head. "Out of my jurisdiction."

"You know, I've never been sure what all your jurisdiction covers."

She sat down next to him with a great deal more agility than most adults could boast "A very broad spectrum indeed. Including what happened at Dr. Grunewald's."

"Doctor who?"

"You mean the others didn't tell you about it?"

"Nah, they're not telling me much these days. What happened?"

"They wouldn't tell me either. But I'll share my surmise with you, if you like." Michael shrugged. "The doctor abducted your friend Max, intending to torture or perhaps to kill him. His sister and Liz Parker broke in and rescued him. They may also have done something to unhinge the doctor. His mind's completely gone. But don't worry, we have him safely under observation."

"Why would he kidnap Max?"

"He seems to have gotten it in his head that Max was an otherworldly being."

"What proof did he have?" Michael immediately revised his question. "I mean, thought he had."

"None," said Topolsky, "now." She could not keep the edge out of her voice.

Michael felt happy—until he reflected that all the others, even Liz, had kept the information from him. "Am I the only one who didn't know?"

"You know now," Topolsky pointed out. "And in exchange..." She took a sheet of paper from her purse. "Can you tell me what this is?"

It was a sketch of the Balancer, not quite accurate, but close enough. "Who drew it?" Michael asked.

"A student." Michael remembered the boy outside the rest room, and wondered how the drawing had made its way to Topolsky's desk. "Well?" she said.

Michael felt compelled to give an answer and decided that the truth, or part of it, would be best. "It's something Max found."

"What does it do?"

"So far, nothing. Except—" He had remembered the small explosion in the park. But that would only make her Bureau more eager to lay hands on the thing. "No, nothing," he said.

She let it go. "And who has it now? Max?" Michael hesitated. "Remember, I told you about Grunewald. He didn't."

Michael gave in. "Okay, he's got it." Then an idea struck him: since Topolsky knew about Nasedo (though just how much, he was uncertain) she might know about the map too. "Okay, now it's my turn. See if these symbols mean anything to you."

He got to his knees and began to draw in the dirt with his finger. No sooner had he finished the whipcord lines than Topolsky grabbed his arm. "What do you know about those?"

"What those?"

"The rocks."

"You can tell from my drawing they're rocks?"

"It's their exact shape. You've never seen them yourself?" Michael shook his head. "Then where did you get this picture?"

"Saw it on a wall somewhere."

"Graffiti?"

"Yeah, in a way, come to think of it. Where are they located?"

"In the desert southwest of here. I don't know the exact location."

"How far, do you think?"

"I said, I don't know!" The subject seemed to disturb her. Yet she had been the one who had brought it up.

"The exact shape," Michael mused. Then his face lit up, and he looked back at the plateau. "I'll be damned," he muttered. Next to the symbol he had drawn, he drew another: the one that resembled a small solar system. "Remind you of anything?" he asked.

Topolsky squinted at it. "A nipple?" Michael raised his eyebrows. She shrugged. "Well, that's what it reminds me of."

"And women say _guys_ only have one thing on their mind." He scooped up his maps, pocketed them, and scrambled to his feet. "Show you what I mean." At the west end of the parking area stood a natural rock pile. Michael helped Topolsky, and then she helped him, onto a ledge halfway up, which afforded a view over most of the plateau and the winding approach where she had left her Impala.

"See?" said Michael. "It's the same as the symbol"—and, apart from some small errors of proportion, it was. "Those aren't just symbols. They're pictures of the places themselves."

He had forgotten that Topolsky did not know about the map and that he did not want her to. "Where is this graffiti wall of yours?" she asked.

He answered with another question that terminated the conversation. "Mind if I bum another lift from you?" He started downhill on his own, leaving her to pick out her own way, as he knew she could. _Be my guest_, she replied, not aloud, but he was out of earshot anyhow.

At the same time (or a little earlier, or a little later) Alex was scaling a dune more steep than any to be found at Angels' Ground, or indeed anywhere in the waking world, with Isabel preceding him. Her bare feet glided easily over the sands, almost as if she were floating. On reaching the crest, she turned to him and lifted her arms, as a star-spangled galaxy whirled in the black sky behind. The high whistle of the wind expanded into a choir of angel soprani. "Can you really do all this?" Alex asked.

Tonight Isabel did not have to remind him that it was all a dream. "This is only the beginning," she said—and upon the word she was transformed into a queen or a goddess or something that partook of each, whose like Alex knew he could never have looked upon and lived, except in a dream. He fell to his knees before her, and the object of his veneration accepted it as her due: mere Isabel no longer, she was now Isabel triumphant.

Though it had been Alex's dream, not hers, it imbued her with a sense of elation that lasted through most of the following day. In the afternoon she and Neila made arrangements for her next visit—that is, her next lesson—and while the two of them stood talking together Ursula and some of her clique—which was no longer Isabel's—passed without acknowledging her, or she them. She was not sure who had cut off communications first, but either way she was glad about it.

So was Max. He had walked up just in time to witness the dual snub, and he felt like applauding. He had never liked any of those girls in the least, or understood what Isabel had seen in them. Now he scowled after them, as he always did, hoping they would notice (though they never seemed to. However, as Neila left his sister, he scowled after her too. At his appearance she had cut the conversation short, feeling it prudent to avoid a face-to-face meeting at that time.

And so it proved. "Who was that?" he asked.

Acting from the same cardinal virtue as her mentor, Isabel assumed an air of indifference. "A friend."

"What's her name?"

Isabel hesitated. "Her name is Neila. Why, does it matter?"

"Is she the one you burned up all those miles on the Jeep to go and see yesterday?"

Isabel had not expected him to notice that, or to make the connection. "So what if she was?"

"There's something strange about her." _And all of us_, thought Isabel. "You know, she might be a decoy put here by the FBI."

"Max, she's just a kid!"

"So?" Isabel had no answer for that. "Keep away from her until I make sure she's all right."

Max had issued such directives in the past—he was famous for them—and his sister had usually gone along with them to avoid contention. But today—the first day of the rest of her life with the new sense of empowerment she had acquired—it was more than she could, or would, put up with. "Who do you think you are, my jailer? You have no right to dictate who I can and can't see!"

Max realized he had come on too officiously, but was puzzled as to why it should suddenly be riling her now; she should have been used to it. "I didn't mean it to sound like that," he said.

"Well, it did," she replied. And for a little both were silent.

It was Isabel who advanced the first peace offering. "Max, please. This means a lot to me. I never had someone to talk to before—someone who understands about—" She stopped; she had revealed more than she had intended.

"Understands?" Daylight dawned. "_That's_ what it is about her. You never said."

"I found out by accident." Her friend might have disputed this interpretation. "It was so lucky I still can't believe it. She's teaching me things, Max—things you couldn't begin to conceive."

Max doubted that. "Who are her parents?"

"She doesn't have any. Like us."

"She must live with _someone._ Some adult. She hasn't mentioned them?" Isabel shook her head. "Don't you think you should ask her?"

"That's between us!" She sounded angry because she had secretly been thinking the same thing—so secretly she had almost kept it from herself—but she had been afraid to tax her new acquaintanceship by probing for information. "And you keep your nose out of it," she told her brother.

"I can't promise that."

"I mean it, Max. Stay away from her!" She stormed off, leaving him more worried than before. But then, every new thing in his life worried him more than the last; it was his curse.

If he had been aware of the investigations Michael had undertaken, he would have regarded them as further grounds for concern; because with Michael you never knew. For the whole day, in every bit of free time he had managed to squeeze out, Michael had been studying the map; apart from reading books, it was the longest he had ever concentrated on anything. To the identifying tag "Library" he had now added two more, "Angels' Ground" and "Rocks—Desert (where?)," next to the appropriate symbols. Only two sites remained to be identified; Michael had not had a chance to ask Topolsky about them, but they would probably have meant nothing to her. It was a fluke her knowing about the rocks (and how _had_ she known?)

It was clear now that the symbols were simplified but recognizably accurate diagrams of the sites they represented: the diagonal lines were the rocks, the concentric circles were Angels' Ground— But hold on! The spot in parentheses? How could that be the library? There was no obvious resemblance at all.

That evening Michael went to take another look. There was no higher ground from which to view the whole layout, only lawn on all sides, except at the rear, where it descended by a gentle slope to a small amphitheatre. Michael had attended concerts there in the summers.

—the ampitheatre! He ran around to look at it and confirm his recollection. Sure enough, it was an ellipse: the amphitheatre, not the library, was the energy center. And again the map had pictured it accurately enough to enable a positive identification.

Michael turned his attention to the two unknown symbols: the spiral and the five boxes. Surely, he thought, the original of the latter should be easy to track down. He could gauge its general direction from that of the rocks: if they lay southwest, as Topolsky had said, then the boxes lay more or less west—and if the map was to scale, they were even farther away than Angels' Ground. That would be some walk. But again, the town was not all that big. The prospect of further geographical calculations daunted him more. _It feels like homework_, he thought. Steeling himself to the necessary exertion, mental and physical, he set out on his expedition.

Soon he came to row on row of apartment buildings and sought among them for a building with five and only five units, but found none. He knew he was being optimistic (and lazy); the place he was after had to be much farther on than that. And so he kept walking, until the apartment buildings ended and a section of single-family houses began—miles of them. Eventually these gave onto a wedge of the business district, the bulk of which extended off to the southeast, and this in turn gave onto more houses. Michael felt as if he had been walking half the night. But it was only an hour past curfew when he reached his goal.

He had no clue at first that it was within his view. All he saw around him was an industrial area stretching for blocks, a congeries of parking lots, fences, and walls, looking sterile and desolate under the security lights, and all of them too far apart to be the objects of his search.

As he was about to give up for the night, he glimpsed an empty lot—no, a whole succession of them—in the middle distance, and beyond them an aggregate of smaller shapes, among them a set of five: five exactly. They were slightly longer than the map pictured them, but in exactly the right configuration. Michael could not imagine at first what they could be. Then he remembered the old railroad yard. It had been shut down, reopened for a time as the Aickman Railway Museum, and then shut down again. But the rusting rail cars remained; where else could they go? As he drew nearer he was able to see them in increasingly greater detail: a locomotive engine, a string of passenger cars, and a caboose with two walls caved in, as from a collision.

On reaching the yard he found it surrounded by a chain link fence—which of course this was no obstacle. In the map on the cave wall, it had been the westernmost of the five boxes that had housed one of the Stones and been pointed up by its light. So it was the westernmost of the five cars—the locomotive engine—toward which Michael looked first.

After he had hauled himself up the tall steps into the engineer's cabin, the thing he noticed at once was an item of clothing—a sweatshirt—draped over the throttle. He turned it over. "Coach," read the patch on the back. Michael tensed: Nasedo had been there—but apparently was no longer: Michael relaxed. He had now seen what was to be seen, which from his perspective was nothing, and was about to leave the cabin when he heard the sound of a bell, faint but clear: _dingdingdingdingding_: a train bell. It kept ringing, and growing louder. Looking out through the front window of the cabin, he saw a light—a train light—a hundred yards ahead, bearing down on him out of the blackness, as if a train were approaching on the same track. This was impossible; there was no track beyond where the engine stood. Yet the ground shook under him.

Scarcely knowing what he was doing, he ran to the steps and leapt to the ground, then shot a look around. There was no train—how could there be?—only the bell and the light and the shaking. Michael started running and did not stop until well past the fence. He quickly mended the hole he had made in entering (though there was no point) and stood in the middle of the field outside the yard, panting and—he now became aware—trembling. "What the hell _was_ that?" he asked himself or God or nobody.

Almost at once, the answer came, and it almost made him laugh. "Unexplained occurrences," Liz had reported: well, he had just had a taste of them, and they had terrified _him_; no wonder the museum had had to shut down. But why those occurrences: train lights, train noises? Maybe traces of the realities lingered there like echoes, and the energy of the place amplified them; maybe they were what people called ghosts. But they were chance emanations, with no malevolent will behind them—at any rate, not tonight. However, Michael desire to repeat the experience. And he did not need to; he had gotten what he was after. Once home, he added a fourth tag to the map.

Now only one symbol remained a mystery: the spiral that was not a spiral. Michael knew he had never seen anything resembling it anywhere. Yet it stirred something in him that was _like_ a memory. His instinct told him that the spiral was not like the other symbols, that its significance lay deeper. For one thing, it was engraved in the Balancer, and for another, Isabel had a pendant—another alien artifact they had found—cut in its shape. Michael wondered whether the spiral affected her as it did him. He could not stare at it too long, or it brought to mind things that bothered him, things and people: usually Hank and, for some reason, Maria. He made an effort, largely successful, to put it out of his thoughts: he had to be up early for work the next morning.

This being a Saturday, Isabel had been able to recruit Alex to drive her out to Neila's in his father's Volvo, Max having claimed the Jeep—on purpose, she suspected, to prevent her going. If that had been his plan, she reflected with some satisfaction, he had failed in it. She and Alex reached the house before noon.

She did not go in at once: she was waiting for something from him. "Glove compartment," he said finally. In it she found a white handkerchief, which enshrouded the thing she wanted. To satisfy herself of this, she felt at it gingerly through the wrapping, stopped as soon as she recognized its contours, and packed it away in her purse. She found that it still excited a slight distaste in her.

"I still think I should check with Max on this," said Alex.

"Trust me, if anyone can tell us about it, it's Neila."

"Maybe," Alex acknowledged. But that had not been his point.

Isabel opened the door. "Thanks for the ride. You can pick me up at two."

"Unh-uh. I'm waiting here."

She looked doubtful. "Long wait."

"Brought my games with me." He lifted a laptop out of the rear seat. "Scouts' motto—'Be prepared.'"

"You were never a Scout!"

"My motto too."

Isabel gave him the most uncomplicated smile he had ever received from her. "You're a nice guy, Alex. You know that?"

"Story I get is, we finish last."

"Not with me you don't." On impulse, she leaned over and kissed him. The beaming countenance this left impressed on his features remained long after she entered the house and almost until she came out again.

She began this visit with a confession. "I told my brother about you. Didn't mean to, it just happened."

"It's all right," Neila said. "He was bound to find out somehow sooner or later."

"He was asking me questions about you. I didn't have the answers."

Neila read between the lines. "You could find them if you tried, in my dream closet. I could do the same to you. But do we need to?" Isabel shook her head. "Your brother would never understand that." Neila glanced up at her. "Would he?"

Isabel had her purse open and her hand on Alex's handkerchief, ready to take it out for Neila to see, but at this question her hand froze. "You're right," she said after a moment. "My brother wouldn't understand at all." She let go of the handkerchief. She was uncertain now if what she had been about to do, or if refraining from doing it, was the right thing; perhaps she would know better later. She clasped the purse shut and laid it on the sofa. With barely a thought for Alex, still playing out in the car, she turned her attention to whatever lesson she might be set today. She looked forward to it.

And Neila did not disappoint; Neila never disappointed. "In my mind," she said, "I'm holding the image of a form. Find it, see it, and change the table to match it."

Isabel focused, and within a few seconds found it, saw it—truly saw it, as if it had been there in front of her—and tried to change it, but with no success. "Slide open the door," Neila reminded her. Isabel remembered; she did it, felt the freedom of it, and the table metamorphosed into a cube twice the size it had been before. "Repeat!" Neila commanded. "But a different form this time." Again Isabel focused, found it—and made a face. "No snide remarks!" Neila chided her. The cube swelled into a valentine's-day heart twice as big again. "Repeat!" said Neila.

This time the job took longer and taxed Isabel more sternly; her face was smothered in perplexity. At the end of it the heart expanded—almost exploded—into a geodesic dome so huge that it scraped the ceiling plaster. "Isabel!" exclaimed Neila. "This isn't what I was thinking of at all."

"No," said Isabel, "me either." They stood and circled it, staring at it wonderingly.

In the lane outside, Alex heard another car approaching. There was no reason the sound should have startled him, but it did; the afternoon had been that tranquil. The girls would have heard it themselves if they had not been absorbed in the mysterious manifestation before them. "You must have picked it up from someone else," Neila said. "Maybe your friend?"

"Or something triggered the memory. I was inside one of those once." This brought to mind the pendant she was wearing, which was concealed by her top; she wore the pendant for luck, but never where it could be seen, in case the wrong people happened to be watching). "That's where I found this." She lifted it into view.

Neila stared strangely at it for a moment, then went to a bookcase (identifiable as such by the books it contained) and took down a framed photograph, which she brought over to show her. "It's the same one, isn't it?" The photo showed a pair of men in front of a dome like the one Isabel had created—in fact, the same one she had been in. It had been a late addition to the house of a man who had once written a book. It was a book on aliens, Isabel had seen it herself, and from the portrait on its dust jacket she recognized the author as one of the men in the photo. He was wearing the pendant that was now hers. "That's James Atherton," she said. "But who's the man with him?" He was tall, with a black beard, was dressed as a cowboy.

"That's my father," said Neila. "He gave him that charm."

A chill seized Isabel. "You never had a father. You said so."

"Sorry, I meant stepfather. I forget sometimes, we've been with him so long." In the pause that followed, the sound of the motor reached them. Neila ran to a window and pulled back a corner of the blind to peer out. Her face lit up. "It's him! I didn't expect him back until next week."

Isabel was confused. "Who?"

"The one we were just talking about. My stepfather."

_No_, thought Isabel, _no._ She backed away toward the door—and bumped into the dome. "I have to be somewhere. A date. I have a date." She hardly knew what she was saying; the only thought in her head was to get out of there as fast as she could.

"No, stay! I want you to meet him!"

Isabel ran out, ignoring her cries. A battered Cadillac convertible with the top down was turning in at the open gate; its driver looked just as he had in his photo. Isabel raced past him to the Volvo. She opened the door on Alex's side. "Slide over!" she shouted—and when Alex was slow to comply she shoved her way into the driver's seat, forcing him aside. The key was in the ignition; she turned it. "Hey, not your car!" Alex protested.

Isabel glanced back at the house for a second. Neila was standing at the door, looking as bewildered as Alex was looking. Isabel wished she could take her out of there—and her brother, of course—but it was impossible now. Tabling her regret, she swung out into the lane and shot off in the wrong direction. She turned at the first crossing and doubled back at the second.

"What's your hurry?" asked Alex. "Who was that guy?"

"_Nasedo._" Her eyes remained fixed on the road. Why did he, of all people, have to be Neila's father? For once something in her life had been perfect, had made her happy, really really happy, and now—

No sooner had Alex absorbed the news than another thought struck him. "Isabel, where's your purse?"

It took only a second for the realization to hit home. Isabel jerked the car to a halt. "_Crap!_" He had never heard her scream before. "I left it!"

"Left it? But it has the—"

"I know!"

"It's with _him_!"

"Alex, I _know_! I was so rattled—" She buried her face in her hands. "Oh, God, what'll I do? What'll I do?" At that point she was not even figuring Alex into the equation.

"Max'll kill me," Alex said. He knew this was not the most important consideration just then, but it was the one uppermost in his mind. "He'll do the opposite of what he did to Liz. He'll _make_ holes in me."

"After he finishes with me." She despaired for a moment, and then ordered herself to snap out of it; that would not help anything. "We'll have to go back for it," she said.

"And take on Nasedo? Just you and me?—well, _you._"

"You're right. We'll have to bring in the others—except Michael. But we won't tell them about—that."

Alex knew what she meant. "Why not?"

"Because I don't want them to know, okay? Until I can get it back." _Covering your ass, in other words_, Alex thought. _Just like the rest of the world._ He understood the motive but did not admire her for it. Just like the rest of the world.

However, in less than an hour, he was at the UFO Center telling Max as much, and only as much, as Isabel had directed him to. "Nasedo?" Max repeated. His first concern was the same as his sister's. "You haven't told Michael?"

"No, Isabel thought it'd be best to keep it from him. For now." The qualification was Alex's, not hers. "She's gone across to tell Liz."

"Liz!" Max could hardly believe that even Isabel could be so imprudent; as far as he was concerned, they should not tell Liz anything more about themselves, ever. But then he remembered Liz's store of knowledge and her capacity for analysis. "Maybe it's best, at that," he allowed. "She might be able to help."

At the moment, however, she was not helping in any way Isabel could detect. "But are you _sure_?" she asked for the third time, forcing Isabel to repeat, "I told you, I _saw_ him."

They were in the staff room at the Crashdown. Isabel had unstopped the kitchen door to keep Michael from hearing them. His back had been turned—Isabel had made sure of that—but not quite long enough to prevent his catching a glimpse of her leopard-print top as the door swung in. There was no mistaking that top.

Through the order window he could hear Jeff calling into the back. "Lizzie! Doing a solo out here!" This confirmed his guess as to who the other party in the conversation was.

"Five minutes, Dad!" she called back.

"You've _had_ your five minutes," he said grumpily. Through the window Michael saw him return to the front, visibly irritated. He was not a very good waiter, but he somewhat made up for it by being a good host, and that afternoon he was too busy schmoozing with the customers to notice the woman who was not one—not today—but was just making a brief tour of the joint in search of someone, whom she did not find. On reaching the rest room door at the back, she discovered a need she had been theretofore unaware of and went in to meet it, paying no heed to the sign on the wall that read "Rest Rooms for Customers Only."

The "five minutes" Liz had requested had not yet ended, but something else was about to, and Isabel would be cross with herself later because she had not foreseen it. "You mustn't tell Michael," she was insisting, as she had insisted to Alex and (through him) to Max.

"What does it matter?"

Liz's seeming attitude of bleak indifference, which was normally alien to her, took Isabel by surprise. "You know Michael as well as I do. Maybe better. Depending on what happened to be running through his head at the time, he might try to kill Nasedo, or join up with him. Whichever, he'd be putting himself in danger."

Liz shook her head dismissively. "Nasedo's no danger to you. Just us." She looked away. "But then, so are the rest of you. He does it his way, you do it yours. Same difference in the end." That morning she had been brooding on her hematological condition, as she found herself doing more and more often lately, and that had left her bitter, as it always did.

To Isabel, who still knew nothing of her case, Liz's mood was just a mawkish self-indulgence, and a distraction from the crisis at hand. "What are you talking about?" she asked.

"Isn't that the reason you were sent here? To contaminate our blood? Only Dr. Grunewald found out."

"Grunewald's crazy."

"Then I'm crazy too."

"You're sounding that way."

This judgment was not without foundation; Liz's state was in fact getting to her, and in her present mood the weight of her hopelessness leaned hard on her other thoughts, throwing them atilt. "One drop, Isabel. From one of his slides. That's all it took."

"Took for what? We don't have time for this." While she was speaking, Michael, unheard by either of them, crept up to the other side of the door and put his ear against the crack.

"Took for your blood to poison mine. I'll show you if you want. Under the microscope."

"I believe you," said Isabel. "You're the scientist." She knew this sounded cold, but she could not help it. Though she felt for Liz in her plight, she could do nothing for her, and so disregarded the problem for the present as none of her concern. Triage, this was called in rescue missions—and that was what she was now engaged in: the rescue of Neila, and the Balancer. "Does Max know?" she asked.

"And if he did?" said Liz. "What's one human more or less?"

"I think you mean more to him than that." And she did think so, even after what had happened between them. But the expression of the thought had sounded perfunctory, like a mere courtesy; she was holding back her sympathy for the sake of practical need—and it would have been of no use, anyway, so why waste energy on it?

Michael, listening at the door, was trying to make sense of it all. He could not see the hardening in Isabel's expression, but heard it in her voice as she went on. "Obviously I can't contradict you. I don't know why we're here any more than you do. But I do know one thing, now." She was pacing; Michael could hear her footfalls. "I thought we could work together to fight Nasedo, in spite of all our differences." At the mention of Nasedo, Michael began listening more intently. "Now I see that Michael was right."

"Right about what?"

"He kept insisting to Max that your race and ours are natural enemies. And this proves it."

"Maybe it wasn't natural." Any claim of proof always stirred the scientist in Liz to examine it. "Maybe you were genetically engineered for it."

"Then that's even worse," said Isabel. And suddenly she was overtaken with the sadness of it, of Liz's dashed hopes and her own. "I'm really sorry, Liz," she said, "though you may not believe me right now. Sorry we ever interfered with your life. Max should have—" She stopped as she realized where the thought was heading.

Liz did not shrink from saying it. "Let me die? Yeah, guess he should." But Isabel had not meant that—had she?

The two of them had now reached the end of their conversation; the end of everything. "_Crap_," Isabel said, for the second time that day.

Michael was set to barge in and demand a full explanation from them of what he had just heard, but somebody beat him to it. The door from the cafe opened halfway, and Jen's face appeared in the gap, gazing at Isabel in fear and amazement. "What _are_ you?" she asked.

"How much did you hear?"

"All of it. Through the wall." She pointed in the direction of the ladies' room.

"Have to get that fixed," said Liz.

Isabel tossed a glance that way. "Done." Then she turned back to Jen. "If you heard, you know. But you mustn't tell anyone."

"Especially your boyfriend," Liz added. The two of them converged on Jen, suspending the separation agreement just settled upon to mount their joint attack.

"Husband," Jen corrected. "He's my husband."

"You _married_ that guy?" Isabel said, and then, "Sorry."

"He's not always like that." But her tone was defensive. "Not with me. Or his sister. She has a birth defect. That's really the reason for the alien thing—he was looking for a cure for her, from up there." Then the truth hit her. She stared at Liz. "But you _were_ healed. So Larry was right!"

"And if he ever finds out," said Liz, "his life could be in danger. Yours too."

"Danger from what?"

"You read about the silo murder?" said Isabel. "And the handprint they found?" Jen nodded. "The guy who made it—he's back."

Michael gave a start, causing himself to bang his shin on the door. The girls heard, but before they could act on their knowledge, Jeff burst in on them. "Okay, Lizzie, back to work now! No more breaks today! And you two, out of here! This area's staff-only." They all hastened to obey, and Michael, rather than waiting to be caught eavesdropping, quickly returned to the grill.

Meanwhile Max and Alex were waiting in front of the restaurant, according to Isabel's instructions. "You have the Balancer with you?" Max asked.

"The what?" Alex had not heard the name before.

"That artifact we found."

"No, we—have to drop by and pick it up after we leave here." It was not precisely a lie, but it was deliberately misleading, and Alex did not feel comfortable with it. Or with what they were doing, either. "Why don't we just tell Valenti? He's been hunting this guy for years."

"And if he gets killed or put in jail, what happens to his stepchildren? They'd be like me and Isabel. Orphans."

"So we let him keep on killing because he's a family man?"

"I haven't worked that out yet. But I'm not bringing the sheriff in on it."

"In on what?" said the voice they least wanted to hear: Its owner had stolen up on them from behind without half trying. "Okay, you two," he demanded, "what's going on?" They stood facing him like deer caught in the Rover's headlights.

—and might have stood that way all night if the girls coming out of the back room had not seen their predicament. "And now the sheriff," said Isabel. "This is just great."

Jen sized up the situation immediately. "Leave it to me," she said, to the others' surprise. She ran outside to where the three were standing and tugged at Valenti's sleeve. "Sheriff, I have to report a missing person. My husband."

"Ma'am, please, one minute—"

"He's been gone all morning. I'm afraid he's been abducted by aliens." This captured Valenti's attention, and that of the boys also. "I'm in the kitchen making scrambled eggs," Jen went on, "Larry's favorite. But no bacon—he used to have six big strips every morning, but I put a stop to that after we got married."

While Valenti listened, trying to hide his growing impatience, Isabel slipped out the cafe doors behind his back. She waved thanks to Jen, Max slipped away after her, and together they hurried across to the Jeep, which he had left outside the UFO Center. To his annoyance, Isabel claimed the driver's seat and grabbed the car keys from his hand.

"We have to wait for Alex," Max said. "He's got the Balancer at his place."

"Not any more he doesn't," said Isabel, and she turned the ignition key.

"So the eggs are done," Jen was saying, "and I call him. 'Larry!' I call. But he doesn't answer. And when I look, he's gone! And he hasn't been back."

Valenti scratched his neck. "And you suspect aliens are responsible? Why's that?"

"Well, last night I woke up and heard this weird squeaking. Like mice."

"Maybe it _was_—" From the corner of his eye he saw the Jeep hanging a U, and before it disappeared on squealing tires around the nearest corner, he also saw who was in it. "Hey!" he shouted.

Coincidentally, the person Jen had reported missing was just turning the same corner on foot. "Larry!" she cried. She ran to meet him halfway.

"I've been looking all over for you," he said.

"I've been looking for you too." That much of her story had been true. "Where have you been?"

"Interview." He wanted to keep her guessing longer but could not hold back the good news. "Jen, I got the job!"

"Larry, that's awesome!" Hugging each other, they walked back to where Valenti was still glaring after the Jeep, or where it had been. "Look, Sheriff!" said Jen. "Larry wasn't taken by aliens, after all."

"Got a job at the library," Larry said smugly.

"Same difference," Valenti muttered.

"Let's go celebrate," said Larry. "What do you say to dinner at Chez Pierre?"

"I say, ooh la la!" And the couple walked off romantically, arm in arm.

Alex was now left alone with Valenti, and uneasily aware of the fact. "Mr. Whitman." Valenti grinned. "Seems like it's just you and me. What say we step out back for a chat?" He motioned toward the alley.

"A chat about what?"

"What you kids are hiding from me." Alex put on an absolutely-not-hiding-anything look of a kind Valenti had seen many times before. "You know, it could be more dangerous than you think. Suppose something happened to Isabel Evans?" Alex glanced sharply at him. "You'd feel pretty cut up about that, I expect. Rather spare you that. But you'll have to work with me." Alex recognized the tactic, but it had its effect regardless. By the time they reached the alley at the rear, Michael, who had intermittently been keeping an eye on the various comings and goings, had posted himself inside the back door, holding it open just far enough for him to overhear.

Isabel meanwhile was heading west on the 70 at a speed which Valenti could not have matched, which the Jeep was bearing hardly, and which had her brother clutching the door frame with something approaching panic. "Will you slow down?" he begged her.

"No."

"Oh," he said, in some slight surprise. "Well, okay, then." Somehow she had assumed command, and he did not challenge it. "Will you tell me where we're going?"

"To Nasedo's."

"And you have the Balancer with you?"

Isabel cast around for a strategy that would save her from having to tell him outright. "Not...exactly."

"Didn't you say Alex gave it to you?"

Isabel cast around again. As yet no strategy was forthcoming. "Not...exactly," she repeated.

"Then _what_ exactly? Isabel, where is it?"

Isabel realized avoidance was impossible. "I left it at Nasedo's."

"You _what_?"

"I couldn't risk going in there alone. I mean, I had Alex with me, but I needed you."

This placated Max a little, as she had hoped. "We have to get it back," he said. "Who knows what he'll do with it?"

"It's more important to get _her_ out of there. Her and Ben."

"I wouldn't say _more_ important—"

"Of course they won't listen." Isabel was now speaking principally to herself. "He's never harmed them, and never will. But he's a criminal. A murderer. And sooner or later it will come down on them. It always does. Then everybody ends up getting hurt." Max had questions he wanted to ask, but he held back until she was done. "You were right, Max, and I was wrong. We should keep to ourselves, not get involved with other people. It only makes matters worse. And now Liz—" She stopped, realizing he did not yet know about Liz.

"What about her?"

She tried to tell him as simply as possible. "Her blood got another kind mixed up with it. Our kind."

This confused him. "I don't see how that's—"

Isabel saw what conclusion he had naturally jumped to and she cut it short. "Not you. It was a blood sample from the lab. There was an accident. Her blood was poisoned. Our blood poisoned hers. Like Grunewald said it would."

"But Grunewald is—"

"Crazy. I told her that. Didn't seem to ease her mind a lot."

"And you're sure? Absolutely sure?"

"_She_ is. And she's the biology expert."

Max could not accept it, and shook his head several times in token of his nonacceptance. "There must be a way to save her. Some way, somewhere."

Isabel felt like giving him a hard shake. Just like him to have his head in the clouds now, when they had to be thinking practically! "_Why_ must there? We can't save everybody, Max. And now, thanks to me, we may not even be able to save ourselves. I've bungled it all." This was the other side of self-determination.

But at least she had succeeded in putting a stop to his meaningless invocations and restoring him to the present concern: he now looked as unhappy as she felt, and that was something. "Could things get any worse?" he asked.

"Afraid so." She nodded toward the rear view mirror. "Same car's been tailing us for miles." She turned onto a side road and the car sped past. She saw it was the Volvo that had brought her the same way in the morning. "Oh, you fool!" she said (to Max, since the driver was out of earshot). "You can't handle him on your own!" But before she could deal with this new fear, there arose a shrill cry, one her brother could not hear; it filled every corner of her mind, and of her being. Although it was soundless and wordless, its message was unmistakable: it was a cry for help. And Isabel knew who the sender was: every consciousness was as individual and recognizable as a silver handprint.

Max saw the alarm written in her features. "What is it?"

"Neila. And she's in trouble." But where? Where? Isabel searched the landscape. "There!" She pointed to a grey Sebring with smoked-glass windows which was soaring past in the opposite direction. That had been the source, without doubt.

"Is Nasedo with her?"

Isabel imagined him as she had seen him, and cast her mind into the Sebring, probing for a match. "I don't think so. No, he can't be."

"Then he's still at the house. And Alex—"

"I can't be bothered with Alex now!" But she felt a twinge of conscience as she said it. She climbed back onto the highway and sped after the Sebring. When it turned off heading south, she did the same.

The Volvo she had seen continued to Nasedo's house and stopped in front of it. The driver switched off the ignition without a key (which in any case he did not possess) and jumped out. He said, to an audience not present, "So this is the place you all didn't want me to know about, huh? Found it in spite of you." He crumbled the gate with a glance, tramped up the path, hesitated for a second at the door, then crumbled that as well, and marched inside. The dome still crowded the living room. The intruder circled it with care, expecting the coach to pop out from behind it at any second. Having cleared it without incident, he proceeded to reconnoiter, one room at a time.

He found only one door shut, and threw it open. The room was dark, but as soon as he stepped in he sensed another presence there. He made a light, like a will-o'-the-wisp fluttering near the ceiling. It revealed the room's other occupant: a man on a bed, half-lying, half-sitting. He smiled at Michael. "I've waited for this a long time."

"Yeah," said Michael, "me too." Ben's playground ball was sitting by the door; the room was his. Michael lifted the ball and hurled it at the bed with such fury that it burst against the headboard. The reclining man had deflected it from himself, but only barely. "Why did you have to make me fight you?" Michael yelled. "And turn me against the only people who mattered? Now everybody's the enemy." The man on the bed did not answer, but stared at him in seeming incomprehension.

The Sebring, and the Jeep dogging it, passed out of the city into the desert. The Sebring turned off onto a narrow road, took it for a short way, and then abandoned it to cut across the waste. The Jeep followed suit. Both were trailing the Great Wall of China, in dust. The Jeep's tires and suspension had an easier time over the rock and brush, and gained on its prey steadily, but too slowly for the driver's taste; she wanted resolution _now._

She wheeled around to a view of the sedan's front tires, focused on them, and turned them to granite, forcing it to a stop. Two "suits" jumped out, waving revolvers. When these turned red hot under Max's merciless gaze, the suits threw them down and fled. Unexpectedly, a beige Rover and a black Impala, side by side, bore down on them from the turnoff road, blocking their escape. One of the vehicles disgorged Valenti, the other Topolsky and another suit, all with guns drawn. The Sebring men raised their arms in surrender.

As the Jeep pulled up beside the Sebring. Isabel rotted one of the rear doors and it fell away, revealing Neila, Ben, and a heavy-set woman with greying hair sitting beside them. She grabbed the boy by the collar. A second later her hands flew to her head, liberating him. He and his sister scrambled out together and she enfolded him in her arms protectively. Isabel ran to them. Max followed her at a walk.

The law officers strode up with the two fugitives in tow. Isabel, to whom it was not yet clear they were being detained, not reinforced, favored Topolsky with her most scornful stare, which she had spent a lifetime practicing. "So the FBI's stealing children now? Nice way to make your living."

Topolsky nodded toward the two. "Not ours, I'm glad to be able to say. But I bet I know whose they are." She peered into the sedan. "As I thought. Hello, Margaret."

The grey-haired woman nodded coldly to her. "Kathleen."

"Out," said Topolsky. The woman did not move. "Now!" This time she complied, though grumblingly. On emerging from the car she was confronted by the row of not-ofs: the two children, Max, and Isabel: probably more than she had ever seen together in one place; her belief in them, if it had ever wavered, was now confirmed.

"Allow me to introduce your child stealer," Topolsky said. "Margaret Seaver from the Bureau of Energy Alternatives Management—or BEAM, as it's called."

"More than _from_ the Bureau, dearie. I'm the new number two."

Topolsky seemed unimpressed. "I wouldn't brag about that too loudly if I were you."

"Who's number one?" asked Valenti. Seaver ignored him.

"Wouldn't we all like to know?" said Topolsky. She looked toward Neila and Ben. "And these are the children." She gazed at them with a catlike curiosity which suggested she had heard something of them herself. "What's your business with them, Margaret?"

"They're being detained on grounds of national security. Sheriff, I expect your support in this."

Valenti rubbed at his five-o'clock shadow. "My job's enforcing the law. These kids haven't broken any laws that I know of."

"Some things, there are no laws to cover—yet. We create our own as need arises."

The sheriff met her commanding stare head on. "Then that kinda makes _you_ the criminals, doesn't it?"

"And inasmuch as your agency has no police authority," said Topolsky, "I'm taking you all into custody on suspicion of kidnapping and child endangerment. You have the right—"

Seaver laughed derisively. "You have no legal basis for holding us."

"Some things, laws don't cover," Topolsky rejoined, "so we make up our own."

"One phone call—_one_—and I'll be out. And so will _you_, dearie—out on your well-shaped ear."

Topolsky stared at her. "Who said anything about a phone call?" This seemed to unsettle the woman somewhat.

"Where's the kids' father?" Valenti asked suddenly. "He was at the house with them." Max and Isabel glanced at each other: how could he have known that?

Seaver shrugged. "We saw no one else."

"No, you wouldn't have bothered to look, would you?" said Topolsky. "Not once you had the children. Your 'energy alternative.' Good for eighty years—or longer, who knows? And they rarely need recharging." The scorn Seaver showed on hearing this did not entirely mask her displeasure at the accuracy of her adversary's knowledge, or guess.

It was not lost on Valenti either. "I get the feeling," he said, "that I'm in over my head here."

"So are they," Topolsky replied, her eyes still on Seaver. "Only they don't know it yet."

A familiar figure had climbed out of the Rover and now came over to join them. "Didn't I tell you to wait in the car?" said Valenti.

"Wait for how long?" Alex rejoined, sounding equally cross.

"You can't be here," said Isabel. "You drove past us twenty minutes ago."

"That was Michael. He swiped my car—I mean, my dad's."

Max looked at Isabel. "We have to go after him."

"Maybe not," said Valenti. He pointed toward a battered Cadillac convertible approaching them. Michael was driving (which in itself would normally have been sufficient to frighten those who knew him) and Nasedo was sitting beside him. They came to a stop some fifty yards away. Nasedo climbed out, though with evident effort, and held the door open. "Children!" he called. They went running to him.

Valenti reached for his gun. Nasedo held out an object resembling a Nerf football, and instantly cylinders of some transparent substance, glass-like but impenetrable, rose up out of the earth like cornstalks to encase the sheriff, his colleagues, and the men in custody—but not Seaver. Seizing her chance, she broke into a run, or an attempt at one. But she did not get far. The dirt at her feet changed to a thick black tar that enveloped and mired them. Nasedo, who had created and guided it, walked out to her, clearly full of purpose, though his step faltered now and then. When he got to her he reached out and grabbed her neck with a black-gloved hand. Before Max or Isabel could think of some way to stop him, they realized he did not intend to harm her; he was doing a mind bind. It lasted only seconds, but it appeared to drain all the energy from him. And when he stepped back from her, he looked nearly as frightened as she did.

"That's what you have in mind for the children?" he said. "_All_ of them?"

"Papa!" shouted Neila. "We have to go!"

"You must be stopped," Nasedo continued, "but not by me. Were I to act against you now, others would follow in your steps. Your end will come—but it must be at the hands of your people, not mine." And with that he returned to the Cad.

The afternoon's multiple encounters and re-encounters had gotten in the way of Isabel's original purpose, but it was not forgotten, and the more events worked against it, the more urgent it seemed. She approached Neila but stopped a few feet away, whether of her own volition or Neila's or someone else's she could not tell. "Stay here!" she urged. "I'll find a place for you and your brother." Then she had a Liz-like bright idea. "You can live with us! We'll be like sisters."

"Sorry, Isabel. He comes first."

"There are things you don't know about him."

Neila smiled sadly. "You don't understand."

"I can help you. We can help each other." Isabel's voice grew increasingly strained as her emotions neared the breaking point. "Don't you see? You're the only one I have!"

"I know." Neila's cheek was wet; she brushed it dry. "But, Isabel—dear Isabel—he's the only one _we_ have."

Max came up alongside his sister. He called out to Michael. "Don't do this, I beg you. Take his road and you'll never find the way back."

Michael gave a half-smile. "You don't know what you're talking about, Maxwell. As usual."

Having failed with Neila, Isabel now turned to him. "Please, Michael, think what you're doing."

To her he spoke more gently. "Have a little faith, Issy. Just—a little faith."

The two children climbed into the back, and Nasedo rejoined Michael in the front. "Goodbye, Isabel!" said Neila. "Remember me." Then they took off in another cloud of dust.

"Remember you?" Isabel echoed. "What do _you_ think?" This came too late for the other to hear, and she could not have heard, anyway; Max had, but only barely, and he was standing right at Isabel's side. The parting, unexpectedly, had left her with an aching inside that would not stop. But it ebbed and flowed like the tide, and every time it retreated a little it rushed in on her again with greater force and a greater sense of loss. And at every resurgence Isabel could hardly keep from crying; for all she knew, she might be crying already. Perhaps she was not that much of a warrior, after all.

The cylinders imprisoning Valenti and the others melted away into the earth, and so did the tar around Seaver's feet. "I'll put out an APB for them," Valenti said, and he hurried to the Rover.

Isabel watched the Cadillac's lengthening dust trail. "I'm responsible," she said, more to herself than to her brother. "For everything that's happened."

"Not Liz," said Max. "Not her."

"No. But Neila. And Michael."

"And the Balancer," Max untactfully added. "Don't forget that."

It had scarcely figured in her thoughts. She had always had a dislike for it, and to her its loss mattered little compared to Neila's, which was like losing a part of herself; which _was_ losing a part of herself. "I wanted to come into my own. I did. And now we've lost both of them."

Her brother replied quietly. "I think we lost Michael a long time ago."

Valenti returned with a scowl on his face. "We can forget the APB. They've jammed the radio somehow."

"And the 'somehow's mount up," said Topolsky. "Or had you noticed? See you back at the station." She and her partner led the three arrestees to the car, crowded them into the rear, and left.

Alex hove a sigh. "Better collect the Volvo. Assuming it got where it was going."

"Want to report the theft?" asked Valenti.

Alex made a face. "Well, the thing about that is, I took the car without permission in the first place—"

"I getcha. Come on, I'll drive you out there."

"_I'll_ take Alex," said Isabel. She was taking command again, and even the sheriff did not question it. "You can see Max home."

Max was not wild about the idea. "I can't come with you?"

"I need to talk to Alex alone." She beckoned him after her. Max and the sheriff, left by themselves, stood for a few seconds trying to come up with something in the way of polite conversation, then by silent joint consent gave up and headed for the Rover.

After they had gone Isabel and Alex remained sitting in the Jeep but not talking, in spite of what she had said. Alex sensed she was working herself up to a duty she did not want to perform. And he was right. Isabel did have feelings for him—her mother had been right in that—and as the two of them sat there she thought of telling him how far those feelings extended, just this once and never again. But she knew that if she did that she could not go through with the rest. So ultimately the bottom line—the single, incontrovertible bottom line—prevailed. "We can never be together, Alex," she said. "Put it out of your mind. I have."

_Is that all?_ thought Alex. "This makes—let's see now—repetition five thousand two hundred ninety-eight. Or is it nine?"

"I know, Alex, I know. I've been unfair to you. I was unsure of myself, and I took it out on you. But this time it's the real thing. On account of Liz and—all of it. Okay?" She reflected that if she had been as much of a leader as she had been pretending to be, she would not have been soliciting his consent with that last word.

"What's Liz got to do with it?" Isabel had assumed Liz would have told him; one more duty for her to perform.

By the time they reached the patch of frame houses, the shadows were long on the ground and the two of them had passed beyond all that could be said. They found the Volvo readily enough—but it was now sitting in front of a vacant lot with Isabel's purse in the middle of it, like a proof left by a ghostly hitchhiker in urban legend. As Isabel went to pick it up, she stared around her at the emptiness where her finishing school had stood, and she felt bereaved all over again. There was a pit inside her she needed to have filled, and the only person who could fill it was gone. She thought of the pendant she was wearing; she wished, too late, that she had given it back.

After dropping Alex at home, Isabel sat on the street in the Jeep, and continued sitting until the sun had sunk from sight. _Everything goes away_, she thought, _suddenly or by degrees._

She was still thinking the same thing later, lying awake in her bed, when her mother looked in on her. It was the first visit in two days (Isabel's room not requiring the daily tidying that Max's did), and since then Isabel had changed the color of the walls and the ceiling to her "true favorite"—ultraviolet, to use Neila's name for it—and though she had resolved to change it back when she got home that night, she had not had the heart; it was the only memento she had. "When did you repaint in here?" asked Diane. She got only a shrug in reply, and hardly even that. "Well, I must say..." She stared around at the womblike blackish enclosure. "I don't know _what_ to say."

Isabel did not know what to say either. So she changed the subject. "Sorry I didn't let you and Dad know where I was today. Max and I were helping a friend. On the road."

"Oh, Max called us. He said you were with him." _He would_, thought Isabel. _And just when I thought I was being the most independent._ "I wasn't concerned," Diane assured her. "I can always trust your brother to look after you. Though you're getting to the stage now where you can look after yourself. You're not a little girl any longer, Isabel. You're becoming your own woman. Strong, self-reliant—and sometimes rather frightening." She gazed around at the walls again, and then straight into her daughter's eyes. "A person might almost say, alien." Isabel felt a little shudder run through her. She recalled Neila's warning about humans: _all_ humans. Her mother smiled distantly at her from the door. "Good night, dear."

She did not get to sleep for a long time after that. If her mother were not what she appeared—if trust could not be placed even there—then everyone and everything was to be feared, and there was no assurance to be found anywhere. Isabel fought against accepting this, but at last she did. It relieved her mind, in a way: the uncertainty was a kind of certainty.

Finally that night, as she was on the verge of falling off and unable to judge whether she were asleep or awake, a girl's figure manifested itself to her, as it had once before. _I came to say goodbye_, Isabel heard. The visitor had not moved her lips.

Neither did Isabel. _It doesn't need to be. We could keep meeting here._

The other one shook her head sadly. _You'd find out where we were in real time. You'd send others to find us._

_Yes, because your stepfather—_

_Don't! Or I'll have to leave._ The force of the thought was stronger than if the words had been spoken: almost like a physical restraint.

_You can't! I need you!_

_Not any more. You're free now._

If Isabel believed this, she did not admit it. _Only because of you. You showed me how to do things I could never have imagined. But without you I don't know how to handle it. I'm out here on my own._

Neila—her own Neila—smiled. _Isabel, you always have been. You've just become aware of it, is all. You've woken from your dream._

Isabel remembered the deed she had left undone, and reached up to her neck to remove the pendant. _Take this_, she bade her. _It was never really mine._ Each of them extended a hand, and the object rippled as it passed from one into the other; from one state of reality into another. Neila lowered it onto her neck and gazed at Isabel for what they both knew would be the last time. _Be strong_, she counseled. _And be kind. The strong have to be kind. And the kind have to be strong._ She regarded her in a way she would never have dared to in their conscious lives. _Goodbye, dear Isabel. I love you—forever._ Then she retreated into the shadows as she had come.

If Isabel had been asleep, she woke then. Immediately she felt at her neck: the pendant was really gone; that much at least, she had accomplished. But only that; the rest was gone too. Isabel turned to her pillow and whispered into it. "Me too," she whispered, and her voice broke, as it never did in dreams: one reason for much preferring them at times like this. "Oh, my good, wise Neila. Me too."


	2. Parts 4 through 6

**Episode 1.19X**

**Marked Man**

It started with the missing pictures.

Early that Saturday morning–so early she had not left for work yet–Maria was sitting cross-legged in the lounge chair she favored particularly, and leafing through the family album, while her mother carried four tote bags to the front door, one on each shoulder and one in each hand. She felt annoyed that her daughter (and only housemate) did not bestir herself to help her, but Maria was lost in the past: hers and her mother's. All at once, there came flooding over her features a tide of anxiety, mingled with deprival. She looked to Amy. "Mom, it's not here!"

Amy was struggling to turn the doorknob without putting down (and then having to pick up again) any of her baggage, and she finally managed it. "I have to be going, honey. Whatever the problem is–"

"But the picture's not here! Did you take it?"

"Picture? Which picture?"

"The one of you and Dad. The _only_ one of you and Dad."

"Yes, and does that tell you something? I haven't touched it. It's probably just misplaced."

"No! I was looking at it last night."

"You see? It must have come unstuck and fallen into the sofa cushions. Keep looking. I'm sure it'll turn up."

Maria flipped the page. "Another one's not here! The one of me and Roman!"

"Roman, your Dalmatian?"

Maria had a frightening inductive flash. "Somebody must have broken in and stolen them!"

"Who'd do a thing like that? The only person who's been here is Jim, and he wouldn't–" Amy stopped, realizing that she could not be absolutely sure of this. But at the moment her thumbs were sore from carrying and, as she had said, she had to be going. "I'll find out when I get back from the festival. See you on Monday." She squeezed out the door with her cargo. Belatedly, Maria got up to lend her a hand, and together they loaded the bags into the back seat of the Jetta. Amy gave Maria a hug. "'bye, honey. Love you."

"Love you too." To this family-ritual response she added, as Amy buckled up, "Divértete. Have fun, Mom."

Amy threw her a gimme-a-break look. "The _crowd_ has fun, honey. I just sit there and hawk my wares." Then she embarked on her drive, which would normally take seven hours but which she was confident, based on experience, that she could reduce to five if the state police were obliging; that is to say, somewhere else. Maria went back inside, her thoughts still on lost pictures, and lost days. "Poor Roman," she grieved. He had died when she was seven, and his death had hit her hard that she had refused to have a pet since. So that evening the house was entirely hers, and without a visit from Michael or a phone chat with Liz to keep her up late she was in bed a little past 9.

Date: 04/09/00. Time: 0120 hr. That was the official estimate that appeared in the eventual police report. A semi rig was approaching the city on the 285, its headlight beams sweeping the grey asphalt ahead. They flashed onto a human figure lying motionless in the brush, just off the shoulder of the highway. The driver pulled over, stopped as far ahead as it took him to brake, and walked back, bracing himself against the wind of other trucks as they passed; at that hour they had the road largely to themselves. When he reached the spot, he found that his eyes had not deceived him: the body was sprawled in a stillness beyond sleep. There was no doubt of the man's condition, but the trucker knelt and felt the neck, just to make sure: it was pulseless and cold. "You're a goner," he declared.

Then he turned the body over–and started at what he saw. Across the rib cage, lying exposed through the rents in the shirt, shone a silver handprint, whose like he had never seen before. He ran back to the truck, hauled himself into the cabin, and switched the mike on. "Breaker, breaker, any station, emergency. There's a dead man, repeat, a dead man, on boulevard 285 north of Roswell. Notify sheriff, repeat, notify sheriff." He kept it up, the same message again and again, until someone out in the night answered him, assured him the sheriff was on his way.

It was still dark when the knock came at Maria's door. Ignore it as she tried, it would not cease, and soon it was augmented by Valenti's voice: "Amy? Come on in there!" Maria sat up growling, and felt on the floor for her top and jeans. By the time she undid the front door latch, she had primed herself to let him know just how much she disliked being roused at that hour of the morning. But the complaint died on her lips when she saw the look on his face. It had a simple seriousness to it, like a minister's, that she had not seen there before. "What's wrong?" she asked. Then a sickening fear grabbed her. "Something's happened to Mom, hasn't it?"

"No, it's her I came to–oh, shoot, she's in Taos. At that balloon thing." He thought for a moment. "Afraid I'll have to ask you to come downtown with me."

"Why, am I in trouble?" Another fear grabbed her. "Has Michael been arrested again?" Odd she should still be worried about him.

"No, nothing like that." Maria waited. "Okay, I don't know how to break this to you easy, so I'll just say it straight out. It's your dad. He's dead. I need you to ID the body. I'd ask your mom, but..."

"My dad? No, he–" She began to say there must have been some mistake, because her dad had not been around for years.

"A body was found out on the highway. There was no ID on it, but the prints are a match. The FBI's got his on file from that time..." He let it drop.

"But we haven't seen him in, like, ten years." Then she made the connection. "Oh, my God. The pictures. It was him. Not you."

"Not me?"

"Some pictures are missing from the album. Mom said you were the only one who'd been in the house."

"She thought I'd take something of yours without asking?"

Maria cared little just then about his hurt feelings. "Must have been my dad. He sneaked in and took them. He always used to take things without asking, Mom said–money usually. That's the only thing that makes sense."

"Not a _whole_ lot of sense," Valenti murmured.

"No, don't you see? He didn't have any pictures of us and he wanted some to remember us by. It shows we still mean–meant something to him, after all."

"Well, maybe," Valenti allowed.

Maria realized she had not yet asked the obvious question. "How did he die?"

"We don't know. But there's a–" He stopped, preferring to hold off for the moment. "You'll see when we get there. Go grab your jacket." Maria felt a churning sensation in her stomach. Her father had meant little enough to her, but she had never seen a dead body except at a funeral service, and this would be different: no minister and no mourners (unless you counted her), just the police.

The churning sensation returned as she faced the double row of slabs in the basement of the sheriff's station–six slabs in all; Roswell had never needed more. Tonight only two were occupied. The morgue attendant led her to the farther one and turned down the sheet covering the body. As Maria stared into the face, she discovered it to be as devoid of meaning as it was of life; this was not the person she had known, however vaguely, only a faint echo of him. "Maria?" Valenti prodded gently. "Is it him?"

"Oh, it's him, definitely. Didn't know for sure if I'd be able to tell, it's been so long. But, seeing him like this..." She began crying in spite of herself. "Damn!" Valenti brought her a tissue from the counter, and she blew her nose on it. "What do you suppose they use these things for down here?" then she shook her head. "Forget it, I'd rather not know."

"Sorry. I didn't expect it'd get to you like this."

"It's not because I loved him!" she broke out. "I mean, maybe I did, back then, but I don't remember."

"It's a reflex," Valenti suggested. "You see your dad's body, so naturally–"

"Mmp-mm." Maria blew again. "What it is, is he wasn't there when I needed him, and now he won't ever be. Of course I knew he wouldn't be coming back, but I could always pretend. And now..." She began crying again. "¡Chechon!" she scolded herself. Valenti moved to hug her, and she slid away. _Not in a million lifetimes_, she thought. _Or deathtimes._ "Who did this to him?"

"We don't know. Except for this." He folded the sheet down again to reveal the silver handprint. "I'll ask you to keep this–"

Maria sprang back, and glared up at him like a cornered animal. "_You_ put that there!" Everything was clear to her now. "That's not my dad! It's a trick, to try and get me to tell you things! I know how you operate. But I'm not buying it. You understand? None of it!"

"Maria!" Valenti and the attendant both started toward her at once.

"Don't touch me! Both of you, keep away!" She ran out to the stairs.

"Her mom'll love this," Valenti muttered. He ran after her, but she was faster than he was, and by the time he reached the street-level doors she had vanished into one of the surrounding alleyways. "Damn!" he said. But he had his ID; he could go home to bed now.

Maria could not–or had much rather not–and to her surprise she ended up at Michael's apartment. In spite of everything, she felt he was the only one who would understand and be able to help. None of their friends had thought it necessary to inform her of his having left, since they knew the two had stopped seeing each other. Admitting herself with her key, which Michael had neglected to confiscate, she saw a figure stretched out on the sofa, evidently asleep. "Michael?" she whispered. The figure half rolled over; she could see now that it was the wrong size. In alarm, she flicked on the light. "Max!" she cried out.

She was disappointed, but she was also relieved. What would she have said to Michael? And what would he have said to her?

"Maria?" Max sat up, yawning. "What are you doing here this late? And what time is it?"

Maria did not know and so could not tell him. "Where's Michael?" she asked.

"Gone."

"What do you mean, gone? Gone where?"

"We don't know. I had a hope he might come back to his apartment. Not much of a hope, I admit, but–"

Maria fell into the chair opposite him and reviewed, with greater clarity of mind than before, what had occurred at the morgue. "Max, Nasedo's here. In Roswell."

"Then you _have_ seen Michael." Since he and Nasedo were together, the conclusion seemed obvious.

But it confused Maria. "Seen him? No, I came to warn him."

"Then how do you know about Nasedo?"

"He's killed–somebody else. Valenti showed me the body. It had his handprint on it."

"Why would Valenti show you?"

"Because–it was my father. Nasedo killed my father. I went into denial mode, acted muy loco. But it was him. I knew. I mean, I identified him." Max wanted to express his condolences but was unsure what form they should take. "It's okay," Maria assured him. "I mean, you know, relatively speaking. Death is never okay really. But I'm not broken up over it or anything. I mean, I hardly knew the man. And based on what I do know, he was no great loss to anybody." She corralled herself back to the point, which she was working out in her head as she was speaking. "But he _was_ my father. And I'm his only child–at least the only one I know of. The last of the Delucas. So it's on my shoulders."

Max was not quite following. "What is?"

"What needs to be done. You know–whatever." Having said this, she realized she had already a half-formed idea of what it was. "You don't know, do you?" she went on. "Until a thing like this happens. Then you see it and you say, yeah, this is why I'm here instead of some place else. And you say, right, okay then, I'm on, I'm down, I'm here to play. Or else you run. And I'm not running. Mom never did, you can bet on that." She sat reconciling herself to her decision. "And so I'm pretty much cool with it. I mean, totally. Totally cool." But it felt awfully final. She wondered why she did not feel more frightened about it than she did; maybe at the moment she was beyond further feeling.

Max had continued to listen dutifully, but with increasing perplexity. "Excuse me, Maria, I have no idea what you're talking about."

This brought her out of her rumination. "Good," she said. "That's good." Then she returned to a thought which encouraged her slightly, the one that had brought her there in the first place. "I can get Michael to help me. When he gets back from–wherever he's gone." Even though he had broken it off with her, wanted no more to do with her apparently, this transcended that; this was about Nasedo.

Max did not know how to break it to her. "Maria, Michael..."

The expression on his face did frighten her. "What about Michael?"

"He–may not be coming back. Ever." He was reluctant to tell the rest. "He left with Nasedo. The two of them together."

Maria took this in. "You're sure?"

"I saw them. We all did." Maria had to admit that it was something he could have done, _would_ have done. Max quickly added, "But I'm sure he had nothing to do with what happened to your dad."

"_How_ are you sure? To Michael we're the enemy, right?"

"That's–just his way of talking." It came out sounding hollow; both of them heard it.

"What did Nasedo look like?" Maria asked. "I mean, when you saw him."

"Hispanic. Tall and lean, with a beard. I'd seen him in that form before, only I didn't know it." Maria had too, at the gym. "But he looks weaker than he did. Like this world's been weighing on him, draining his energy."

At the same moment Maria heard the word "energy", she saw it written in Michael's hand on a slip of note paper lying atop the coffee table between them. "Energy sources," the top line read, in letters big enough for her to distinguish from where she was sitting. When Max was not looking she leaned forward and scooped up the note. Then she rose. "Gotta get home," she said. "I need my beauty sleep."

Since Max insisted on escorting her she had no chance to read the rest of the note until she got inside. "Energy sources," she read. "Lib. AG. Rocks. RR Mus–ask Liz." The only way she would ever be able to make sense of it would be to do as the last two words directed. She would have preferred not to ask Liz the time of day; but then, she would have preferred not to be in the position she was, not to have to do any of it. She was not sure she could do it anyhow. She searched the family album for another picture of her father, though she knew none existed. In its absence she spoke to the unfaded rectangle that marked where the one had been. "I'm gonna do this for you this once, okay? But don't expect me to make a habit of it." So much and no more had she achieved by 4:30 or so, when sleep kicked in. The alarm was set for 6.

In the grey half-light she walked to the Crashdown and stood in the alley alongside while she tried to work out the best approach to take with Liz. _If I can't deal with her_, she said to herself, _how will I ever handle–him?_ Before she could resolve either issue, Liz came out and spoke to her. "Hey, Maria," she said, sounding caring rather than hostile. "I was sorry to hear about your dad."

Maria was astonished. "How do you know about that?"

"Deputy Owen's our first customer. You know that."

"Oh, yeah. Don't suppose he mentioned–no, Valenti would be keeping that quiet."

"Keeping what quiet?"

Maria hesitated to tell her: it felt like disclosing family business to an outsider. "There was a handprint on the body."

"You mean like–"

"Like Nasedo." She hesitated again. "And, Liz, Michael's with him. They're together."

"So he did find out," said Liz. "_F-word!_" She never, but never, used that kind of language, and was immediately ashamed of herself for it. "Sorry," she offered, "I lost control there for a second."

The obvious implication–that she had known something about Michael that Maria had not–passed Maria by; her concern lay in another direction. "I should have seen it coming, you know? Not the alien murder part of it, which is not a thing you normally look for, but the part about Michael cutting himself off from me for all time. That was, like, fated. In the genes. Oil and water–can't mix."

"Oh, you're so right, Maria. More than you have any idea." Given this vent, all of it poured out of her. "You and Michael, or me and Max–any human and one of them–we can't ever have–ever make–ever engage in–" Her cheeks grew redder and redder as she spoke.

"Liz, I get it, all right?"

"I mean, ever. Ever _ever._ It's not safe. I should have told you before. I owed you that much. I was waiting for further observations to confirm it."

That was Liz to the teeth. "Scientist girl."

Liz nearly smiled at that. "Yeah."

"So what was to confirm?"

The near-smile evaporated. "Their blood–it poisons ours. So it's reasonable to suppose the other–substances their bodies produce may be equally harmful. You understand what I'm saying?"

_What am I, ¿la estupida?_ Maria thought. "How do you know? About their blood being poisonous?"

"Easy," said Liz. "It poisoned me." And her manner _was_ easy–calm, intelligent, and direct; she had come to terms at last with the fact of her own temporariness.

Maria, however, had still to do so. "Oh, my God," she said. "OhmyGodohmyGodohmyGod." Despite their recent differences, she felt a vast outpouring of sympathy for the girl she had been friends with for so long. "Then does this mean–are you going to–" She could not bring herself to finish.

Liz helped her out. "Not tomorrow. Probably not for a long time yet. I mean, Grunewald's still with us. But eventually, I guess–yeah."

"Oh, Liz!" Maria could not think of any words more adequate to the occasion.

"It's okay, you know? I'm dealing."

Maria was silent for a few moments while she sorted things out, much more slowly than Liz would have in her place. "You know, though, in a way it's good. For me, that is."

"Happy to help," Liz said bleakly.

Maria missed the irony. "I mean, it makes the situation totally clear. They're the enemy. Bottom line, right?"

"That's what Michael kept saying. That this was what it would come down to in the end and we'd all do terrible things to each other."

"See, that's what I mean. You always do that–make things clear. It's how you run your life. If only mine was that way. It's so much easier to do things when you–"

"Plan them ahead?" Liz suggested.

This was true, but not what Maria had had in mind. "–see them clearly. So make one more thing clear for me, mi amiga."

"If I can."

"Oh, you can. It says so on this note Michael left." She produced it from her purse. "You'll know what it means."

Liz looked it over. "These must be places on that map of his–the one from the cave. This one's the library–"

"I know about that."

"'AG' is Angels' Ground. I don't recognize the others. Michael must have found them on his own."

"What does it mean, 'energy sources'?"

"That's what they are. Repositories for cosmic energy of some kind. In fact–"

"Energy!" Maria interrupted. "If Nasedo ran dry, that's where he'd go to fill up. One of those places. You wouldn't have a copy of that map?"

"No, why?" Liz made a quick inference. "You're not thinking of going after him?"

"_Them_," Maria corrected. "Going after _them._"

"And what happens if you find them?"

"Then–I've found them. The two that killed my father." Her face was set.

"You don't know that Michael was involved."

"I didn't for sure–until I talked to you."

Liz regretted this. "Supposing you do find them? What then?" She was getting an uneasy feeling that she already knew.

"They must have asked themselves that, don't you think? Michael looks at Nasedo and he's, like, 'Hey, Nas, buddy, what do we do here? Give this guy a break? Show him some mercy? Or do we off the sucker?' Well, we know their answer, don't we? Worked for them, works for me."

"You're not saying–"

Maria met her gaze without blinking. "Aren't I?"

Liz was aghast. "Maria, think what you're doing!"

"Get in that habit, I'd end up not doing anything." Liz started to protest further. "Michael almost went over to him once before. Did you know that?" Liz had not. "That time it was only about me and I could let it pass. This is family."

"Maria, your dad abandoned you. You don't owe him."

"It's not him personally. It's the obligation. Working where you do, you should understand that."

"Maria, look–"

Maria held up her hand. "Stop. Just stop. But if I'm not back in a couple of days and my mom asks what gives..." She paused and smiled. "There isn't a damn thing you can tell her, is there?"

Liz cast around in her mind for another argument she could bring out, and she could think of none. She felt more helpless than she ever had before in her life. Her best friend (she supposed that their talking like this made them best friends again) was planning a terrible, an inconceivable act. Liz could not say absolutely that it would be wrong, considering the circumstances–but it was unconsidered, unwise, and probably impossible; Maria would only end up hurting herself, and maybe Michael–and what if Michael were innocent? But Liz knew it was of no use to keep at her about it; nobody could stop Maria from doing what she had made up (or, as in this case, pretty much made up) her mind to do. However, at least the two of them were "okay" now; that, Liz was thankful for. They sealed their mended bond with a long hug and a short goodbye; Liz hoped it would not be their last. Then Maria set out for the place she knew she had to go next.

It was not yet mid-morning when she reached the sign welcoming visitors to the "Homelands of the Mesaliko." On Sundays the gift shop was closed, and the reservation–which was never bustling even at its busiest–seemed almost deserted. Of the few people out and about, the nearest were a pair of old women scuttling across the empty gravel lot in front of the tribal administration building.

Maria approached the pair. "Uh, ladies? Excuse me? Can you direct me to the–" She had expected them to stop, but they scuttled on past her as if she had not been there. "To the cave with the paintings?" she said, more loudly. "Or can you direct me to River Dog's place?" At her utterance of the name, one of the women spared her a glance back and a tight shake of the head before she and the other one trotted off out of sight. Maria presumed the woman spoke English (all the other Mesaliko she knew about did), but it was unclear whether the question she had answered was the same one Maria had put.

In any case, she did not need directions, really; she remembered that the cave entrance stood near a river which sliced through the reservation, and which she expected would be easy to find. Once she had left the road, she indeed found it without difficulty, but it was blanketed in a mist that hid all but a few yards of the surrounding terrain. She followed the tall grass along the bank for about a quarter mile, then diverged from it for half that distance, backtracked, then backtracked the other way, and got to where no habitations, and certainly no cave, were to be seen. It was then Maria realized she was lost. Each subsequent change of direction seemed more wrong and made her more frantic until, when she was nearly at her wits' end, she stumbled onto the cave mouth. "Knew it was around here," she said, in a sudden advent of unwarranted self-congratulation.

Once inside the cave, she found herself pulling her jacket collar closer. She followed the passage to the map on the wall, took out a pen, and began to copy the hieroglyphics onto the back of Michael's note.

"Why are you here?" said a voice she would have been unable to hear on a busy street; in the quietude of that setting, it so startled her that she cried out aloud. She turned to see a man sitting cross-legged against the opposite wall.

"You scared me!" said Maria. Then she recognized his jacket. "Deputy Owen?"

He seemed a different person there, hermitlike and meditative. "You know you're trespassing? This cave's council property. Whites aren't allowed unless they're specially invited."

"I was invited, once. I helped save someone's life." On hearing this, Owen regarded her with greater interest. "It seemed like a good idea at the time," Maria added glumly.

"Doesn't look like anyone's in jeopardy now, though."

"No, I'm–doing a project for school. On Indian cave paintings."

"If you knew anything about them you'd know these aren't Indian. They were made by–a visitor."

"Nasedo?" The word escaped her involuntarily and she quickly tried to cover herself. "That's Mesaliko for 'visitor,' isn't it?"

Owen nodded gravely. "But it's a word not often heard nowadays in this community. It was tainted for us by a visitor we had once, many years ago." He stared at her. "But you know about him, and what he did to your family." It was not a question. Maria's anger rose to her face; a moment later, she masked it. But Owen had seen. "The knowledge has planted a dark seed in you," he said. "It shows behind your eyes." Maria averted them. "Let it die, girl. He's too powerful for you. He's a brujo."

"That word's not Indian either."

Owen shook his head. "There is no Indian word for what he is."

He was unable to tell whether Maria had understood; she gave no sign one way or the other, and that was deliberate. Just then she did not need opposition; she already had little enough confidence in her ability to carry out what she had undertaken. She changed the subject to the one that had brought her there. "You know how to read this?" she asked, turning back to the map.

Owen got to his feet and joined her in front of it. "All my life I've studied these figures, trying to see the meaning in them. It's still a mystery."

"But not totally, right?" said Maria. "I mean, it's a map. Here's the library. And somewhere on it is Angels' Ground."

Owen ran his eyes over the symbols and picked out the one that Michael had guessed. "This is the shape of it. Strange, I've seen it from the helicopter, but I didn't recognize it before. When I'm here, on the homeland, I leave my white job out there." He stared at Maria again. "How did you know?"

"I didn't. Michael did. And rocks–his list says there are rocks."

Owen pointed to the symbol Topolsky had identified. "I've seen rocks like this, somewhere."

"Somewhere close to here?"

"No, not close."

"What about 'RR Mus'?" She was reading from the slip of note paper. Even after having it spelled out, Owen did not get it, and Maria showed him the written words (if they could be called words).

Owen pondered them for a little, together with the two unassigned symbols, and finally extended his finger toward the one Michael had discovered for himself. "'RR' is 'railroad'," said Owen. "This is the railroad museum. Has to be."

"I know where that is! Thanks." Maria took back the note and returned it to her purse. "You know, you shouldn't be so down on yourself. You're great at this seeing stuff."

"Mmm" was Owen's only answer. He was conning the map further, trying to "see" the last, most mysterious symbol, the spiral, by judging the distances and envisioning how they would appear from the county helicopter. Suddenly it came to him: "Why, this is–" He looked to where Maria had been standing, and then out to the passage whither she had gone. "Wait! Come see!" She did not come back, but Owen continued speaking to her as if she were there. "Better you'd waited," he said, "and seen. You're a part of it too. All of you." However, the particular part that Maria had chosen for herself was one that Owen (to the extent his own power of seeing could inform him) forecast that no good would come of. "Next time we meet," he said, "I fear it will be in my job out there." He had always kept a strict separation between his two worlds, personal and professional, Apache and white, but wondered whether the situation, this once, called for him to violate it.

Soon Maria was wishing she had asked the deputy for directions back. But the mist had now lifted and, to her relief, within a few minutes she could see the road, or rather, the cluster of adobe and wood houses that surrounded it. She had found her way out.

She took the road back to town as far as the industrial quarter, then turned off and headed for the railroad yard and former site of the Aickman Museum. _Three out of five's not bad odds_, she told herself, referring to the map symbols; as she thought more about it she realized the odds were closer to three out of four, since the rocks would be out in the desert, too far to be Nasedo's first choice for a pit stop (as she termed it in her mind).

Maria reached the chain link fence which enclosed the rusted cars and she scaled it nimbly. As she dropped to the ground, a barking started up somewhere nearby. A watchdog? She made ready to take to the fence again if she had to. Around the cowcatcher of the locomotive appeared the head of the creature that had done the barking: a white head with black spots. A second later the rest of him trotted into view, all the way down to the wagging tail. He did not act mean in the least, and Maria loved him on sight; he looked just like Roman! A chill shot down her spine: it _was_ Roman. It was the same dog, and he was dead.

Maria jumped back. The dog turned and scampered out of sight around the engine. She stood frozen, almost too scared to follow, but for her family's sake she forced herself, one foot at a time, until she had rounded the engine nose and could see up the cabin steps. A man was sitting at the top. He smiled down at her.

At first Maria took him for a tramp, and then she recognized the face, unchanged from twelve years before. It looked more like him than the one she had identified in the morgue. Another chill seized her, and she backed away from him. "Baby lamb!" he said, as if his feelings were hurt. "Don't you know your own father?"

"You're not," Maria protested, as much to herself as to him. "You're the one that killed him."

The man smiled again. "Nothing gets past you, does it?" Maria hated him, just looking at him, and wished she had a gun to kill him with. She actually considered attacking him with her bare hands, but he was bigger, and (when his medicine was working) a brujo–and there was nothing else around she could use as a weapon. She was forced to stand there, powerless, and watch as the man's features turned drippy, like jelly, and changed to those of Coach Clay. The clothes that had fit perfectly hung limply on him now. "Oh, dear," he said. "I liked Señor better–or was it Signore?" His face turned drippy again and changed back; the clothes resumed their shape.

Then he hopped down from his perch. If his energy had been flagging, the place had indeed restored it, as Maria had surmised it would. "So you know about him. Then you also know he wasn't worth mourning. What else do you know?"

Maria felt his consciousness wedging into hers. "Excuse me?" She pointed to her temple. "See the sign–'No trespassing'?"

"Sorry." She felt him withdraw. "I do so hate to pry. But sometimes–"

"You were acquainted with my dad, then?"

"Briefly. Even more briefly than you. I believe you were only four years old when–"

"I know the history. I lived it. How did you come to meet him? _If_ you did." She was taking nothing he said at face value.

"You might call us business associates. It was I who lured him here with a proposal to extort money from your mother." Maria saw no reason to doubt that. "It was only a pretext, of course. My true purpose was to take his measure–and, ultimately, his shape."

"Why? Why him, of all people?"

"Why, the better to fool you with, my dear. Unhappily, events betrayed me. The remains were discovered too soon. I knew I ought to destroy them, but it hardly seemed worthwhile. In addition, I failed to take into account your own native shrewdness."

"I'm flattered," said Maria, meaning the opposite.

"On one point, however, I'm afraid you're in error. The handprint on your father's corpse was your boyfriend's, not mine."

"Michael?" Maria both believed and disbelieved this. "Where is he now?"

"Why, I was hoping you could tell me."

She stared at him. "I was told he was with you."

"_Was_, yes. He went to retrieve some belongings from his house–gifts of yours to carry as keepsakes on his journey. He's very sentimental that way, you know. The cognizance of having lost all chance of your forgiveness weighed heavily on his spirit."

"That is _such_ a crock." It sounded so little like Michael, it almost made her laugh. But what had happened, then? Why was Nasedo looking for him? Or was he? Had he invented the story for a different purpose?

"You're right," he said abruptly, as if he had read her thoughts again. "We're still together. Inseparables. And he's waiting for me a little way from here. If you want to get back at us for your father–I know you do, I can feel it–you'll have to find us." He shifted shape again, dwindling and mutating into the Dalmatian, then shook himself free of his human clothes, and ran to the fence, in which there suddenly opened a hole ringed with fire. He leapt through it, and it closed back after him. Then he sprinted off across the field beyond.

"I will!" Maria shouted after him. "You bastard, you." This, she said in a voice not meant for him to hear. "You killed my dad." And for some reason then she began to cry. _Didn't make much of a showing there_, she thought. _I had him in my sights and I let him go. And how will I ever find him now?_

She sensed that he and Michael had never been together; that when he had said so, he had been lying. Yet Max had said the same, and he had been telling the truth. That was logically impossible. There was something she was not seeing–something somewhere–somewhere Michael was, with Nasedo...

She could not be sure afterward when she fell asleep. Or if she was actually sleeping when the vision appeared to her. It might have been a dream, or an image derived from the mental energy stockpiled in that place (though maybe that was all any dream was); whatever the nature of it might have been, it revealed to her, so clearly as to leave no doubt, Michael's–and Nasedo's–destination. She should have been able to guess it before, it was so obvious. Nobody ever fled north, only south; Michael–and Nasedo, probably–would know only one hideout in that direction. But Maria did not have to work out the logic of it; this was contained in the image before her. And all around her: she was at once inside and outside the place presented to her view. A place she remembered: a geodesic dome. And when she returned to normal consciousness, Maria knew where she had to go.

She had intended to allow herself a good night's sleep, which she knew she would need for what lay ahead of her. But anticipation kept her wakeful late, and woke her early. In the morning, she filled her big knit bag with enough clothes and other personal items to last the week. By the end of that time she would–should–have achieved what she had set out to; she dared not think about what would happen if she failed, or for that matter if she succeeded. She was at the brink of a precipice, about to jump, and staring down into the chasm below, assailed by a cramping fear in her chest and belly–but it had been there since she had made up her mind to act; she was resigned to it now.

Only for herself, however; not for her mother. And her concern was not totally unselfish. If her mother became frightened for her, she would tell Valenti, he would put out an APB, and Maria would be stopped before she had started. What was needed was a phone memo that would obviate the possibility of worry. So she improvised one. "Mom," she said into the receiver, affecting as casual a tone as possible in the circumstances, "I need a break from things. Thought I'd head out to Vegas and chill there for a few days. I've got friends there. In the casinos. So you don't need to worry." She paused and clicked the machine off. "Not even close."

She started again. "Hey, Mom? Guess you've heard about Dad dying and that. I'm pretty broke up about it, so I'm taking some time off to heal my profound grief. Going camping up at the Toro rocks. Just me and my bedroll." She clicked off again. "_Camping?_"

She tried a third time. "Mom, life so sucks."

And once more–but this time without pressing "Start." "Mom, you've always told me families have to stick together. Everybody still thinks Dad ran out on you. I'm the only one who knows you ordered him out. Unless he changed his ways, which he refused to, being a total pendejo and general pig–rest his soul. But I never heard you bad-mouth him to other people. If they did, you took his side. And the same with me. When people would come and complain about me–with just cause, God knows–you'd put them in their place. And I always knew if anyone ever did anything to hurt me–which, thank God, it never happened–you'd track them down if it took your whole life."

Maria paused. "You wouldn't do that for him now, I know. He's not your responsibility any more. But he is mine. Just because he was my dad. I don't know how this will all end–God, I don't even know how to start–but somehow–"

She was interrupted by a pounding at the door, which at first she took for a gunshot: it was the way her mind was running. "Maria! You cooping in there?" The voice was Valenti's. Then he said to someone with him, "Shoot, she doesn't know anything. If she did I'd have picked up on it." The phrase "fat chance" for some reason recurred to Maria then.

"She knew his Indian name." The second voice was Owen's. "She might know more than that. You should question her about it." On hearing this, Maria assumed that he had reported their whole conversation, and she was disappointed in him for it. She did not know that he had made an intentional effort to preserve as much as he could of her privacy, and the sanctity of his own retreat, by telling his boss as little as necessary that would still (he hoped) keep her dark seed from flowering.

"Probably found it out from her boyfriend," said Valenti. "Or Liz Parker. They've got the stick-to-it-iveness to dig up stuff like that. But not Maria."

"She seemed pretty inquisitive to me." She silently thanked Owen for that.

"Yeah, but there's a difference between–is that the phone I'm hearing?"

It was. Maria did not dare answer it with them standing at the door and able to hear in. So she left it to the machine. Following the recorded message, she heard her mother's voice on the line. "Honey, I know you're at school this morning. Just calling to let you know I'll be in Taos an extra day." Maria desired desperately to run and pick up the call, to talk to her mother one last time before–whatever was going to happen happened. But the two men were at the door. "Man at the festival wants to discuss distributing my novelties," her mother's voice continued. "Can you believe it?"

Through a window Maria saw the sheriff returning to the Rover; Owen was already in the front seat. They were leaving at last! "By the way," her mother's voice asked, "did that picture of your father ever turn up? Love you. 'bye." Maria raced to the phone and grabbed up the receiver. "Mom?" She heard a click on the other end. "No," she said sadly, "it never did."

The arrival of the message reminded her that she had still to compose one herself. She thought of a cousin who had just sent a post card to her and to Liz both, at Liz's address, so that her mother had not seen it and did not know that the family was vacationing in Cancun–a location from which they could not readily disprove an alibi. This inspired Maria to a final recording session. "Mom," she said, "I've got to get away from here for a few days, on account of Dad and everything. Get my head clear. Erica and her family have invited me to spend a week with them. Hope you won't mind." That was not all she was hoping, but the rest could not be said. "Don't bother calling me. I'll call you. Love you. 'bye." Then she replaced the receiver. Done.

After a long, slow look around, as if it might be her last, she left the house. As she walked the block and a half to the bus stop, she got the uneasy feeling she was being followed. She quickly swung around, intending to surprise whoever it was, but she saw no one. On reaching the bus bench, she dropped her bag onto it and herself alongside. The uneasy feeling persisted. Maria put it down to nerves.

A grey Mercedes in the far lane slowed down as it passed her, then stopped at the corner, made a U, and returned. Maria transferred her bag to her lap, ready to run if necessary. The car veered close to the curb and pulled up square in front of her. By then she had recognized it, and so when the window rolled down, she was not surprised to see Mr. Evans at the wheel. "Well, hi there," he said, with that superficial cheerfulness which many adults affected and which few teens trusted. "Shouldn't you be in school today?"

"I'm going to visit a sick–aunt."

"Oh?"

_Yeah, oh_, Maria thought. _How do you answer a question like that? It's not even a question._ So she did not try to.

"Hop in," said Philip. "I'll take you to the station." Maria tried to think of a plausible excuse. "Quicker than waiting," Philip pointed out. Maria realized how suspicious it would look to refuse. So she got into the car. Once they were underway, however, she sat with her eyes on the floor and did not volunteer speech. "Seen Max lately?" Philip asked, with seeming casualness.

Maria had been prepared for an interrogation; this opening question was easy. "Yup, saw him yesterday, as a matter of fact."

"And Isabel?"

"Our paths don't often cross."

"I get a feeling there's something the two of them would like to tell me. But they're feeling kind of shy about it." He glanced at Maria. "You wouldn't have any idea what that might be?"

"Sorry, out of the loop these days. Since I stopped hanging with Liz."

Philip shook his head. "Yes, I'm quite disappointed in that girl. She appears to have set everyone in your circle at odds." The criticism was miscalculated: even when she had been her angriest at Liz, Maria would have recognized it to be untrue. "What could her motive be, do you suppose?"

"Like I said, I'm in the dark as much as you."

The car pulled up at the bus station. "Here you go, Maria."

She stepped out. "Thanks for the lift."

"You're visiting, who was it now? Sick uncle?"

"Aunt."

Philip put on a puzzled frown. "Could have sworn you said it was your uncle."

Maria looked him in the eye. "No, sir. She's always been my aunt."

He smiled at her. "Have a safe trip."

She smiled back with equal insincerity. "You just bet."

"I'll give your best to Max." A shadow of doubt crossed Maria's face; it was fleeting, but it was enough to satisfy Philip that she had not quite told all. With the push of a button, he rolled up the window, and his Mercedes glided off; just to be safe, Maria watched it until it had disappeared.

But now she was feeling guilty. Philip often had that effect on people, especially young people; many grown-ups did. Maria wondered if they had to practice until they got it down. Shaking off her feeling of guilt, she faced east and trudged toward the 285 with her bag slung over her shoulder. _No turning back now_, she thought. _I mean, yeah, I could, but I packed all this stuff._

Liz had been worrying about her all night and all morning, and took the first opportunity she found to communicate her worry to the one person she thought might be able to help. But Isabel was having none of it. "No offense, Liz," was her response, "but at this point I think it'd be best if we all kept our distance from each other." And she continued down the locker hall.

–or tried to, but Liz obtruded. "Michael's pretty distant right now, isn't he?"

Isabel stared at her. "You know about that?"

"I know he's with Nasedo. But you can find them, can't you?"

"And suppose I could? Why should I tell you where they are?"

"Maria's gone after them. Nasedo killed her father. I think she's going to try and settle the score."

"She won't, he'll settle her." Isabel gave a little huff. "Why can't you humans see to yourselves?" Liz had no answer for that. "Anyway, I wouldn't be able to reach them. Michael will have a firewall up. So will Nasedo."

Liz had an answer this time. "But Maria won't."

"True. But outreach only works on humans when they're asleep."

"Maybe she's sleeping now."

"In the middle of the day?"

"Worth trying."

So Isabel tried, but with no confidence in the result. "You know this won't work," she said, twice. Then, to her amazement, it did: she made contact almost without effort. It happened that Maria, still short on sleep, was half-dozing as she stood on the shoulder of the highway, holding a hand-lettered sign that read "Marathon, TX." A sidewind from the next truck brought her to her senses, but by then Isabel had had a peek into her dreamspace and at the only object in it: a geodesic dome. "Marathon, Texas," she said.

"That's where they've gone?"

"It's where she's going." This gave her a new idea. "Wait." She shut her eyes and concentrated. Half a minute later, she opened them again, shaking her head as if to clear it. "Wow, do they ever have a firewall up. The four of them combined. I could never penetrate that. But their collected energy is so strong, I was able to trace it to its source."

"Which is?"

"In the vicinity of highway 90."

"That's the way to Marathon!"

"Exactly."

"We have to go after them!"

"Yes, I suppose we do." Obviously she was not thrilled by the prospect. "I'll hunt up Max."

"I'm going too."

"Oh, no, you're not. You'd just be one more human to rescue." Liz had to acknowledge that she was probably right. "And what would you tell your parents?"

"What will you tell yours?"

"Oh, Max will come up with something."

"What? Tell me! What?" he demanded of her after she had told him the plan. Before the two of them left for home that afternoon, they had run through all the possibilities and ascertained that none of them would work–at any rate, not with their father: he was used to cracking alibis.

"You realize I have no idea what I'm going to say," he confided to Isabel as they entered the house.

As she was about to reply, their mother called into the front hall from the living room. "Kids, is that you? Come say hello to our guest." With an exchange of wary looks, Max and Isabel rounded the corner to find their parents sitting and having drinks (whether alcoholic or non-, they could not discern) with one of the people they would have least wished to see there (the others were all Nasedo, in his different forms). "You know Ms. Topolsky," Diane said. Topolsky flashed them that smile which always seemed to be masking something.

"You're later than usual today," their father observed. He was right; their discussion had taken much longer than they had been aware of while it was going on. "Where were you all this time?"

"Library," said Isabel.

"School," said Max, overlapping her. But he quickly corrected himself. "School library." Philip stared at both of them, a little too long, as they stared at their guest.

Sensing her cue, Topolsky rose. "Time I was going." But the children's relief was short-lived. "You have my card," she reminded their parents. "You can call me at any time. But use my cell–I'm working out of home at the moment." After a polite exchange of goodbyes, Diane saw her to the front door.

"Why do you have her card?" Max asked his father.

"She's investigating a rash of teenage crime here in Roswell." He looked from one to the other of them. "Neither of you is involved in any sort of illegal activity, are you?"

"Did she say we were?"

Diane heard him as she came back. "No, nothing like that. She was just asking us to keep our eyes open and report anything unusual we observe."

Few things shocked Isabel; this did. "So now you're spying for the FBI?"

"When the community's facing a threat," said Philip, "it's up to everyone to pull together."

"And anyway," said Diane, "our family has nothing to hide." She looked hard at Isabel. "Have we?" Before they could reply, another concern pushed that one to the side. "Heavens, I should be starting dinner."

"Our turn," Isabel promptly offered. When Max was slow in agreeing she led him out by the arm. Once they had left, their parents leaned close together and spoke in whispers, as the children listened from the kitchen.

"We'll have to watch them," said Max.

"You mean while they're watching us?"

Max smiled at the irony. "One big happy family."

"What do we do about going to look for Maria?"

"We _don't_–not with the FBI breathing down our necks. We'll just have to--trust to Maria's natural common sense."

Isabel considered this. "As Dad would say, you're assuming a fact not in evidence." Max nodded, acknowledging the point. He could see she was unhappy about the situation, and so was he. But what else could they do?

Some time between that evening and the next morning, the object of their worry woke in the big steel cab of a sixteen-wheeler that was barreling west on highway 180. It reminded her of the locomotive engine she had seen at the museum. But the driver definitely did not remind her of Nasedo, in any of his guises; more than anything else, he reminded her of a cheeseburger. He had introduced himself as Barry when he had pulled over to stop for her. Now he was looking down at her small but attractively rounded form with a good deal more than abstract interest. "Woke up, did you, sweet pea?" he asked cheerily.

Maria looked around vaguely. "Why am I here?" Then it all clicked into focus, and the weight of her obligation–the one overriding obligation–descended on her again. "Oh," she said. "Yeah." She gazed out onto a landscape not perceptibly different from the one she had left behind. "Where are we now?"

"A ways from Marathon yet. You go on and sleep." Maria obediently curled up and shut her eyes. "We got plenty of time to get acquainted." Barry reached down and squeezed her knee. "Nice seat covers, doll." Maria's eyes immediately popped open as the truck barreled on.

In spite of her best efforts, however, she again nodded off, and dreamed of an empyrean that was furnished in geodesic domes of all colors and sizes. She floated from one to another, searching, ever searching, and kept discovering more domes that she had missed, so the search went on endlessly, and she could find nobody in any of them, not Michael or Nasedo or her father or...

When she woke again, a cold grey dawn had risen, exposing flatland on all sides. The truck was parked on the shoulder of the road, and Barry was standing a few yards out from it with his hands at his midsection and (mercifully) his back turned. Maria thought of running away while he was relieving his need, but then thought twice about it: what if he ran after her? Safer to play him along for a while and wait for a better chance.

She noticed that the glove compartment was not latched and an oily rag was wedged into the crack. This offended her sense of order, which (in spite of appearances) was acutely developed, the start of its development dating from that morning when she had woken to find her father gone. She stuffed the rag into the compartment and tried to shut the hatch again, only to discover that the rag had been the only thing holding it in place; the latch was missing.

As she began to return the rag to where it had been originally, she glimpsed an inch or so of what looked like a gun barrel at the very bottom of the compartment. She slid aside the top items to reveal a Taurus .38 and a box of ammunition, both of which she immediately made up her mind to steal. This was, like, fate. She would need them for what she had in mind, and in addition, she would now be armed to make her getaway.

She took out the gun and the box, pushed them down to the bottom of her bag, and wedged the glove compartment shut with the rag. She was just reaching for the handle of the side door when the other door swung open. Maria quickly shut her eyes. As soon as she heard the door slam, she opened them again and turned to Barry, now re-enthroned beside her. "Huh? Wassa sim?" she mumbled, yawning and stretching. "Is it morning?"

"Sun was up ahead of you, baby socks. And breakfast is on the boy here." Maria gathered that by "the boy" he meant himself. "Only fair, after a girl spends the night with me." He winked and laughed. Maria's face puckered involuntarily; she tried to cover it over with a would-be playful smile. "Truck stop's up ahead," said Barry.

"Lobo Truck Cafe," read the dusty sign, and followed it up with the promise of food, drink, and music. Barry parked at the outer edge of the lot. Maria, after negotiating the climb to the ground, walked around the mouth of the truck to where he was waiting for her. "Giddy-up, little filly," he commanded. "Nose bag time." Her indignation at being so addressed was immediately displaced by a greater concern: a state trooper's white-on-black was sitting in front of the building. Maria tilted her chin down and hunched forward, as if trying to shrink herself to the point of being undetectable; this was not lost on her companion.

Entering, she saw the trooper seated at a counter to their left. She swung to the right and, jockeying into position ahead of Barry, led him to an end booth, where she chose to sit with her back to the room. As they skimmed the menu, the waitress (Maria had an idea they were still called waitresses out here) stepped up to the table. "Coffee for the boy here," said Barry. "How 'bout you, sugar loaf?"

Maria peered at the badge the waitress was wearing. "Brenda," she said, "hi there. I'm Maria." Brenda said nothing. "Okay," she continued, "so would you have, um, a selection of herbal teas?"

"We have tea."

"Tea," Maria said, "will be fine."

Brenda's gaze had been alternating from one to the other almost with the precision of a metronome; it was starting to make both uncomfortable. "She's my niece," Barry volunteered. "I'm her uncle."

Brenda's expression did not change. "I'll just fetch that coffee. And a tea for your..."

"Niece," Barry repeated, enunciating the word distinctly. He glared after her as she left. "That one could stand to be a mite friendlier." He eyed Maria. "You too, sunbeam."

Maria turned cautiously toward the front and saw the trooper rising to leave. Relief showed in her face. Barry grinned slyly. "You're a runaway, ain'tcha?" Maria tensed as she turned back to him. "Don't fret, peach blossom. I'll take care of you." He extended his foot and nudged hers. Maria immediately withdrew both legs and squirmed out of the seat. "Back momentarily," she said. As she started off she realized she had left behind the bag with the gun in it. She hurried back to pick it up and then hurried off again. "Be sure and flush that radiator good!" Barry yelled after her. "We got us a long drive ahead."

"That's what you think," Maria muttered. Passing the register, she noticed a help-wanted sign taped to the front. This inspired one of the brainstorms she was prone to–which were often sound, though she usually could not explain them well enough for other people to see it. She approached Brenda, who was busy preparing the tea. "Um, excuse me?" Brenda glanced up. "That guy I'm with, el zorro, down there? He's not really my uncle."

Brenda called into the kitchen. "Sully, guess what?" A round face with a stubbly chin appeared at the order window. "Not her uncle."

"Life's amazin'," Sully pronounced.

The unexpected addition of a third, masculine party threw Maria off a little as she gave her account, which she had rehearsed only slightly. "Okay, what happened was, I bummed a lift in his rig back–back a ways. Which was not the wisest move, I admit. But it was a ride, and it was free. Not that I'm looking for a free ride," she hastened to add, "either literally or symbolically. But at the time he seemed like a real person, you know? Neck a tad pink, coming on to red–but I'm a strong believer in tolerance toward persons of all colors, and body types. And he was okay to start with–not particularly sensitive to women's issues, but not a serial predator. Only then he started moving into–areas of concern." She stopped. "Do you have any idea what I mean?"

Brenda laughed. "Kitten, I knew what you meant before you started."

"So I was thinking–that is, if you wouldn't mind–"

Sully came out to them and picked up a baseball bat from under the counter. "You want I should teach the bum a lesson?"

Maria waved her hands. "No, no! Envisioning something _slightly_ less extreme. For instance, I was thinking, if you could pretend you were hiring me for that job you have posted, I could disengage without a big 'the power compels you' confrontation. If you wouldn't mind." She waited hopefully.

Sully did not hesitate. "Come with me," he said. He peeled off the help-wanted sign, marched back to Barry's table with the two women following him part of the way, and slapped the sign down in front of Barry. "I'm short me a waitress. I'm hirin' your friend. Any objection?"

Barry looked down at Maria. "Thought you were headed for Marathon."

"I changed my mind."

Barry was obviously disgruntled. "You know she's a runaway? Prob'ly underage. She tell you that?"

"Sorry," said Sully, "little deaf in this ear."

Glancing out the window, Barry spied the trooper, who was still sitting in his unit. "If you're not interested," Barry said, "bet he will be."

"Hal?" said Brenda. "I just bet he will–_uncle._"

Barry practically jumped out of his seat. "I never touched her!" He waved a finger at Maria. "And you can't say I did!"

"You took a liberty with my knee," she pointed out.

Barry's face grew red. The other two stood staring at him. "All right for you, then. But see if I ever stop here again." He picked up the vest jacket he had shed.

"You promised me a breakfast," Maria reminded him. Suppressing an oath, Barry pulled out his wallet, found the smallest bill in it–a twenty–and flung it onto the table. A few seconds later he was over and out. "I think I lost you a customer," said Maria.

"And good riddance," said Sully. "We don't need his kind anyways."

The three of them walked back to the counter together. "Have a seat," said Brenda. "We'll talk." She brought Maria her tea. "Twenty bucks buys a lot of breakfast. What'll you have?"

"Short stack of Vermonts," said Maria, without thinking.

Sully, who was just re-affixing the help-wanted sign, looked up with interest. "Either you got a relative in the restaurant business or you've waited tables yourself."

"Sure, I've waited tables. You want to know how to get the last half-teaspoon out of a can of coffee, ask me."

Brenda leaned on the counter. "Where was that, now?"

"The Crash–" Maria stopped in mid-word. "The Cash 'n' Carry. In Las Vegas. But it closed. Months ago. Years, actually." She hoped this sounded more convincing to her listeners than it did to her.

Brenda glanced at her boss. "What do you think, Sully?"

"Think you can handle a room this size?" he asked Maria.

She calmly sipped her tea "Piece of cake."

"Okay." He peeled the sign off again. "Job's yours. Nine bucks an hour."

"Deal," Maria said, automatically. _No antennae anyway_, she thought. A second later she realized what she had done. "Job? No, wait. I can't–" Then she reconsidered. Of the several facts that were vying for her immediate notice, trying to cut in front of one another to be first in line, the one that beat out the others was that she had little cash on her (and the state of her bank balance was such that ATMs–even if she could find one–would be of little use). In the zeal that had launched her on her mission, she had insufficiently taken into account her practical needs (except of course food). She had allowed herself a week, but had not truly expected the task to take that long; two or three days at the most. Now she began to see the limitless range of possibilities real life held to frustrate even the simplest plan.

"All right," she said finally, "but it can't be for long. There's something I have to do." Or maybe she did not really want to do it; maybe accepting this job was just an excuse to postpone the moment of truth. But Maria chose not to think about that. Truth be told, she always preferred not to delve into her feelings and motives; it made her kind of antsy, and in the end you were the same person no matter whether you liked it or not, so what was the purpose?

"I'll take whatever you can give," Sully said amiably.

"And who knows?" said Brenda. "We might grow on you." She bestowed a smile on her such as she had not shown Barry. "You can sleep on the sofa-bed in my trailer." This sounded okay to Maria.

Then she noticed for the first time the door to the lounge. "You have entertainment here?"

Sully shrugged. "Depends on your definition."

"There's a band comes in," Brenda said more helpfully.

It was fate again. "Because, as a matter of fact–I also sing."

So that evening the easel standing next to the lounge entrance held a placard, done up with indelible marker in the performer's most artistic lettering, announcing the Culberson County debut of Lizz Alexx (the best-sounding stage name she had been able to devise at short notice). A little before showtime, two young men arrived in matching black shirts and pants; one uncased a guitar, and the other seated himself at the drum set already in place. Maria, having changed to the only other outfit she had brought with her (which like most of her outfits, luckily, suited the theatrical setting), stepped up to introduce herself. But it turned out she did not need to. "You're the singer, huh?" said the guitar man.

"What's it look like?"

He barely spared her a glance. "Like a little nobody with a slick-sounding story managed to b.s. her way into a gig here."

"Yes, which having done, I feel entitled to claim a certain respect as my due. How quick can you pick up a song?"

"How quick can you drop it?" he shot back.

"You have possibilities," she said. "Definite possibilities." Her eye lingered on him for a second; he was not unattractive, for a back-country type. "But that's not why we're here," she concluded.

"Got that right." His attention remained fixed on his instrument.

"Well, good. As long as we're clear on that." But she could not help feeling slighted, in the same way she had often felt with Michael in times past; long, long past.

For the next half hour she stood to one side watching the crowd collect, until she realized that those she was seeing were all there would be. But of course, it was only her first tour, and she had not had time to get out the publicity. And an audience was an audience. Her first number (of the three total), she had chosen to suit the venue; it was her only composition that qualified as country. This was the first verse:

"Well, he took me to the movies

And he took me to the town

Then he took me to the cleaners

While the stars were looking down.

Now I'm lost out in the desert

And it's lonely all around

And I never will forgive him

While the stars are looking down."

Her employer was taking in the performance from the doorway. When the song ended, Brenda, who was serving, looked to him for his verdict and felt unaccountably proud when he delivered a thumbs-up. By the end of the set, the audience, and even Maria's back-up, seemed to agree. So great was the pleasure she took in this that it filled her head to the exclusion of everything else, including the purpose for which she had traveled so far.

It even followed her to bed that night. When she slept she dreamed again of geodesic domes, but this time the dome was a club where she was the featured act. At the close of her set the lights rose on the listeners to reveal them all as monsters from the planet Lizz, with bills for mouths and flippers for hands. But they were a good crowd–a great crowd. "So where you all from?" she asked, and then realized she already knew. And among their number was Michael (she recognized him somehow), sitting at ringside and clapping his flippers vigorously.

At that point Maria woke–she had to, the show was over–but that image of Michael remained in her mind. She had come to get justice on him and his partner, not to become a music legend; it was the old story, forest for the trees. "I made a vow to myself," she said, aloud. "Well, not a real vow. More like a promise. But it wasn't a promise either–I mean, I never actually used the word 'promise.' It was more of a thought. Like, there are soft thoughts and hard thoughts, and this one was definitely hard–'You are doing this, girl!' Yeah, more like that."

She had to get going–and she _would_, definitely–but not for a few days yet. She owed that much to Sully, and to her own financial solvency: a person had to eat, after all. "I didn't plan this very well," she said. "A few more days will give me time to plan it better." This was true, but she would never do it (unless she were forced), whether she had a month, a year, or a decade at her disposal–and somewhere at the back of her mind, she knew that, or half knew it; people had told her often enough. "Five days," she said. "I'll give myself five days. Or seven maybe. They'll still be there." Since they were in flight, this prognostication was by no means certain–and Maria half knew that too. "_Probably_ will," she amended. Then she dozed off again.

Her travel alarm brought her out of it. The trailer was dark, but she forced herself out of bed: the Lobo, like the Crashdown, opened at 6. Its first customers were a pair of farmers who always came in together. Maria tried on them the greeting she had worked up the previous afternoon: "Good morning and welcome to the Lobo Truck Cafe, where you can always count on service with a smile–or a low-carb, high-energy substitute. What can I get you two?"

"You can git on over here and sit on my lap," said the shorter of them. "How 'bout that?" He was not being genuinely lecherous, like the departed Barry; only tiresome, after the manner of older men with younger waitresses.

"And again I wonder," said Maria, "is there something about operating a tractor that paralyzes the higher brain functions?"

"Nope," said Brenda, coming to her rescue if need were, "Dan's always been this dumb."

Dan seemed not to mind the insult. "Know one thing for a fact." He stirred his coffee slowly. "You see Hal coming, you better tuck this 'un out of sight."

"Who's Hal?" asked Maria.

Brenda looked worried. "Why, what's she done?"

"Nothin' as I know of. But he's been showin' a picture around looks a whole lot like her. Says it's somebody went missin' up in Roswell."

"Was Hal that trooper?" asked Maria. She thought of the stolen gun in her bag.

"Tony and me," Dan continued, "we figgered it was one of them alien abductions." He squinted up at Maria. "Must be a accidental resemblance, huh?"

"Yeah," Maria murmured, "must be."

"Come with me, kitten," said Brenda. She led Maria away until the farmers were out of earshot and then handed her a key ring. "Go to the trailer and wait there."

"What are you going to do?"

"Tell you when it's clear in my own mind. I know I'm not letting Hal or anybody take you back, unless you're of a mind to go." She looked squarely at her. "You're not, are you?"

It would have been the perfect chance for Maria to escape her obligation; no one would have blamed her. But she was not that much of a coward. She shook her head. "Not yet."

"I thought not. You git on out there. I'll think of something."

The "something" turned out to be a bottle of hair dye, and within a few minutes Maria was submerging her head in the bathroom sink. "Is this really necessary?" she asked.

"You got a better idea for getting out of here incognito?" Maria did not. So she stayed under, and bobbed up in a short while to face the mirror with a new crop of jet-black plumage. "See there?" Brenda trumpeted. "Your own mama wouldn't know you."

"My mom's seen my hair every color. And just for information, I know some people who could do this a lot faster."

"Well, excuse me for keeping you." Brenda handed her a towel. "Here, dry." She went into the front room, took her wallet from her purse, and cleaned it out. She called into the bathroom. "I got enough here to pay you for the time you worked. Plus, I'm putting in a bonus to see you a few miles farther." A tingle of intuition prompted Maria to come out into the front room, just in time to see Brenda open the knit bag–but not in time to stop her seeing the object lying at the bottom. Too late, Maria ran up and grabbed the bag away.

Brenda stared soberly at her. "I sure hope that's got nothing to do with the guy in your song."

_She's too good a guesser_, Maria thought. "I keep it around for protection."

Brenda clasped her hand in a way that was almost motherly, except that Maria's own mother would never have done it. "Kitten, I'm a big believer in letting everybody blaze their own trail. But there's some holes that's so big, once you step in 'em you can't ever get out. And all it takes is that one step."

"I'll be careful," said Maria. "Seriously."

"Easy to say." _Of course_, thought Maria; she had only said it to get the woman off her back. "But try to remember it when the time comes." She whisked Maria's new hair. "Dry enough. Time you high-tailed it out of here. The next town over's Valentine–not much bigger'n this, but it's got a bus stop. I'll take you in the truck."

And so, much sooner than she had expected, tricked out in black hair and showgirl make-up (which she had applied in the truck), Maria found herself on board a Trailways bus, jouncing slowly but surely southeast toward Marathon.

Late that afternoon, as the purple shadows stretched out lazily across the campus, two of the people she had left behind met for the first time (not counting the classes they shared) since their official estrangement. The one who was forcing the meeting, by waiting at an exit she knew the other had to use, was not looking forward to it. But she had to know what there was to be known–if there was anything. The other would have walked on, ignoring her, but she blocked his path. "Have you heard from Michael?"

Max shook his head. "Maria?"

Liz shook hers. A silence fell between them. "What's going to happen now?" she asked. "To them? To all of us?"

"How would I know?"

"What do we do if Maria–or Michael–" Liz could not bear to finish.

"What we have been doing all along. Whatever's necessary."

"You mean, _kill_ them? Nasedo and–and Michael?"

"Whatever's necessary," Max repeated. "But only when we know something for sure."

"But how? We're not police, or soldiers. We're kids. How can we do things like that?"

Max answered quietly–and, Liz thought, bitterly. "Once you and I thought we couldn't live without each other. Now we are. What you think is impossible becomes possible, if you have no other choice."

Liz felt an ache she could scarcely bear. "Max–"

"Like I said–sometimes people don't have a choice." He left, and this time she let him. The school grounds now looked more deserted than ever. Liz could not decide whom to feel more sorry for, Maria or herself. Finally she settled on herself, and went home to see if she could spread a little of her misery to her parents, who she secretly felt deserved it. However, by the end of the evening she was feeling ashamed of herself, and her sympathy shifted back to Maria–who, though Liz did not know it, would soon need all the good will she could get.

The following morning, after disembarking in Marathon, she immediately began looking around for someone old. The man her eye eventually landed on exceeded the requirement: he looked as though he had been a fixture in the tiny park ever since the grass had been laid. His name (though Maria would never have a chance to learn it) was Carlos.

"Excuse me?" he heard, in his dozing. He woke to find a girl standing over his bench, whose appearance he regarded with some astonishment, as being more outlandish than he was used to (or than she remembered). "There's a building somewhere around here," she said, "shaped like this." She bent her fingers as if holding a ball, and then wiggled them as if squeezing a sponge. "You know the one?"

"Sure I do," he said–rather amazingly, given what he had been given to work from. "Atherton place. Queer fella, Atherton. Talked to himself a lot. He was a writer, you know. They're like that, writers. 'course, he's dead. Don't talk at all now."

"Where is the place?"

Carlos pointed. "Back the way you come about three miles, then north another two. You'll hit a dirt road and take that another mile. You're not walking, are you?"

"What if I am?"

"Pretty far piece to walk. 'course I done some walking in my day. Couldn't afford a car, and there weren't no buses then, so either you walked–"

"¡Ay, mierda!" Maria quickly turned her head. A woman had walked past them on her way to the bus depot–a woman Maria had recognized, without doubt. But what would have brought Topolsky there?

Carlos had seen her too. "Cops after you?"

"What makes you think she's a cop?"

"Why, ain't she?" He peered narrowly at Maria. "Gal, what you got it in mind to do?"

"What I have to." It was good she had the chance to affirm that now.

"Cops gonna try and stop you?"

Maria watched Topolsky enter the depot. "Not if I can help it," she said. With that, she took her chance. It had been her design to leave inconspicuously, but Carlos defeated it by shouting loudly after her: "That's the spirit, gal! Don't let 'em nab you! This is a free country!" and following this exhortation with the first six bars of "My Country, 'Tis of Thee." Inexplicably, it did not bring Topolsky out, but it did cause someone else to look over: a man standing in the shadow of the building who had not been there a moment before; Carlos was certain of that. He would have remembered the face.

Maria took care that she was not followed on her way out to Atherton's; the miles of empty desert, and mostly empty road, made it easy to tell. The walk was not so easy, but her job at the Crashdown had accustomed her to spending hours on her feet. She made such good time that when she arrived within sight of the dome, the stone house next to it, and the range of low hills behind, she still had most of the afternoon and the whole evening left to wait. She dropped her bag and plopped down in the dirt to rest her legs. The brush and the distance hid her from the view of anyone who might happen to be looking.

She reached her hand into her knit bag and grabbed out a smaller plastic bag full of tortilla chips. The rip and crinkle of the plastic, and the crunch as she bit into the first chip, seemed to resound thunderously. She extracted each chip thereafter as if it she were handling an explosive substance, delicately and in slow motion.

What did she think about while she was waiting? And what had she thought about during her walk? She could not have said afterwards herself. Maybe nothing, maybe other things; probably everything except what she should have been thinking about. She certainly did not reflect on her reasons for coming there, or the reasons why she should have stayed where she was. She had gone through all of that already, or as much as she intended to. And anyhow it was too late now; her course was set.

Not until the sky began to darken did she feel the cold. Instead of buttoning up, she let it seep into her, to help prepare her for the task ahead, which still seemed unreal and abstract to her, as if she were reading about someone else who was doing it. She lifted out the Taurus and the box of ammunition. She had never loaded a gun before, but as a small girl she had watched her father do it; ironic that he was now helping her in his own behalf. But characteristic of him: it was always all to do with himself.

She suddenly remembered that Michael believed Nasedo to be his father (she did not know he had since discovered otherwise). "I hope he is," she said. "Then we'll be even. And you'll understand why I have to do this." Of course, he would only have a few seconds to achieve this understanding–unless she took care of him first, in which case he would have no time at all. So she supposed it did not really matter either way.

Not owning a watch, she had to guess at the time; she felt as if she had been sitting there for a week. Past midnight, as she guessed (it was actually closer to ten), she got up and started toward the dome, with the way lit for her by the stars and a gibbous moon. Her advance was so gradual that for many minutes she felt she was getting nowhere. She took care to tread softly, but from the relentless and unceasing silence she surmised that Michael and the others must have left–if they had ever been there at all; dreams were not always true, and perhaps hers had misled her.

At long last she reached the dome. She approached the recessed door and peered through its single hexagonal pane. The view inside was darker than it was out. The doorknob was locked, as Maria had expected it to be. She began a circuit of the perimeter. A quarter of the way around, she found the first evidence of habitation: a Jeep Cherokee parked between the two buildings. She realized now that she needed a plan. And in the crunch, forced at last to come up with one, she did. Having laid down her bag, but holding onto her gun, she looked for some rocks to throw at the wall, to wake the people inside. To her disappointment those she found were too small to wake anybody. So she came up with another plan.

She walked out to the Cherokee and began swinging with the gun at one of the side windows until she smashed it in. She intended thereby to set off the alarm, but when none sounded, she guessed (correctly) that the vehicle was Nasedo's antique and alarmless Cadillac, camouflaged so as to contradict any APB the police might have broadcast. However, she had made enough noise to achieve her purpose. The recessed door opened, and Michael appeared; Maria hastily took cover against the dome. As he went out to inspect the SUV, she stole inside behind his back, pressed herself against the curving wall, and waited there in the dark. Her heart seemed to be beating in double time. When Michael returned, he passed her without seeing her and continued into a tunnel that connected the dome with the house. Maria waited fifteen minutes longer, counting out the seconds by the "potato" method, and then followed him.

The tunnel opened onto an ordinary corridor, which opened in turn onto a vacant room. Maria stopped in the entryway. Just enough moonlight flowed in through the bare windows to show that the house had never been completed–or perhaps Atherton had designed it that way, with its studs and joists exposed. Propped against one of them sat a tall, bearded man, whom she had once heard called Pete, and Michael was sitting catty-cornered to him; the others were lying on the floor. All appeared to be asleep. Maria stood watching them, the gun quivering along with the hand that was holding it.

She could hear the noise Michael made in place of snoring; someone who had never heard it would have had to work to detect it. After it had gone on for five minutes without a let-up, Maria ventured a step forward. And then another. Michael emitted a loud cough, or something like it. Maria froze. A few seconds later, the former noise resumed. She continued, almost on tiptoe, and halted between her prospective targets, looking from one to the other. Finally her eye settled on Nasedo. She started to raise the gun–

And found herself without the will to use it. After coming so far! _Eres una gallina!_ she chided herself. What kind of a daughter was she? This kind, apparently: whatever she owed to her family, she did not want to kill for them; she did not want to be the kind of person who did that. She had not realized it until now, when she was called on to pull the trigger. Her imagination had not been vivid enough to foresee how horrible it would make her feel; like an attack of food poisoning.

She lashed herself on by recalling–once, twice, three times–the wrongs he had done her; that they had _both_ done her, Nasedo corrupting Michael and Michael welcoming it. The contempt they had shown her family! Herself forgotten about, her mother used without her knowledge, her father left as road kill. And the ingratitude of Michael! Her mother had made him feel welcome in their house (not at first, maybe, but later on), they had given to him and he had taken from them, emulating Nasedo–his idol, his mentor, probably his father–who took from every human being he met. Selfish, murdering bastards, the pair of them. She believed she could shoot them now. She raised the gun.

Instantly a beeping arose. Maria had never heard it before, but she guessed its source. It was coming from Nasedo's direction. He and the others began to stir. Panicking, Maria waved the gun and squeezed the trigger before she meant to. The report echoed through the unfurnished room. The bullet landed in Nasedo's arm. Michael bounded forward and tackled Maria. She hit the floor painfully. He felt for the gun and yanked it away. The beeping subsided.

Behind him a girl Maria did not recognize jumped to her feet and raised an arm. A fiery ring erupted in the middle of the air, throwing light everywhere. In a few seconds, it faded away like a flare, but enough light remained to see by. The girl knelt at Nasedo's side. A moment later a young boy joined her. Michael found himself staring down at the last face he would have expected to see. "Maria! What the hell did you think you were doing?"

"He killed my father."

Michael's face showed a new understanding. He slid off her, and his head drooped wearily. "No. He didn't."

She sat up alongside him. "Then _you_ did."

"No!"

"I saw the handprint! It had to be either you or Nasedo."

"His name's Feddin. And he never killed any of those people." He looked to Neila. "How's he doing?"

"I've healed the wound. But he's even weaker than he was before." He certainly looked it.

"You up to explaining?" Michael asked him. "If you aren't–"

"She has to know." The tall man addressed himself to Maria and to her only. "It's true I am a criminal. An undocumented alien. To live in the shadows was not my choice–it's my curse. But I'm no murderer."

"The only one he ever killed was Hank," said Michael, "and that was by accident."

"I visited him in the guise of a social worker–"

"Which, if one of them was an alien," Michael interjected again, "who'd know the difference?"

"I warned him to cease mistreating Michael. He was drunk and he attacked me. I reached into his mind to calm him. But the awareness of another spirit inside him was more than he could abide. He tore at his mind as if he had been tearing at his flesh, to get me out of it. At last he tore it open. He pled with me to make the pain stop, and I did, in the only way I knew then. I had no part in those other deaths–though I was blamed."

"He means 'framed'," said Michael. "There's this other Vallosan–that's the name of our planet, Vallosa–who came to Earth at the same time he did."

"Klima. We were two of the sentries appointed to see the ships to Earth."

"Ships?" said Maria. "There was more than one?"

"A small fleet containing the seeds of our emigration. My ship carried Michael and the others–that is, the genetic matter from which they were to be formed."

"It's complicated," Michael put in.

"I was quartered in the outer shell," Feddin continued. "The genetic matter was housed in the core. On landing, the core was ejected, and torpedoed underground to a point miles away. I searched for it, and returned to search again. I never found it." He turned to Michael. "But I left the signs of the Stones for River Dog to reveal to you, in case you had survived."

"He's also the one who healed River Dog that time in the woods," Michael noted.

"I traveled far, searching for other ships and their sentries, while Klima did the same. Ultimately we found each other. I also found two ship-borns whose sentries had passed"–he nodded toward Neila and Ben–"and took them under my wing. Klima dreams of finding the rest and assembling them into a great army. The human woman Seaver dreams of harnessing them together into a living power station–and worse. Such ambitions are futile. For this world to survive, our races must live in harmony. Ones such as these would prevent that. So Klima murders and casts suspicion on me, to discredit me–because I counsel peace."

Now Maria recognized the magnitude of the sin she had nearly committed. "I'm so sorry," she told his stepchildren. "I would have done the same thing to you that bastard did to me. You'd have had every right to kill me."

Neila recollected a line from a song. "'And another eye for another eye, till everyone is blind.'" Maria saw the wisdom of it, but she wondered where justice fit in.

"Klima has not much time left," Feddin went on, "nor have I. Your world is not ours. Its atmosphere withers us. There is no cure that we know. The tablets we take only retard the rate of decay."

Maria remembered Nasedo's–Klima's–pill bottles. "What kind of tablets?" she asked.

"All of Vallosa was saturated with a unique thermal energy, which you know as the Balance. Certain places in this world are possessed of the same energy. The pills are ground from the stone in those places."

"But Michael doesn't need to take pills," said Maria. "Or Max, or Isabel."

"No, the ship-borns have adapted–or _were_ adapted. That's why it's up to them–to the next generation–to decide the future of our two peoples." He turned to Michael. "You still have the Stones I left you?" Michael nodded. "I left you this too. Under the tower." He held up an object that had been concealed by the folds of his coat. "You know it is called a Balancer. But do you know what the word means?"

"Klima said it's a channeling device."

"Klima said truly, but did not say all. This is a Lodestone–_the_ Lodestone, the last one remaining. It calls to the other Stones with a greater power. One Stone to rule them all, one Stone to bind them. The lesser ones permit you to tap that power–the power that was Vallosa, the power stored in those places the Stones revealed to you, the power of the Balance. But with the Lodestone, the one Stone, you can channel the power when and where you will it, if you will it strongly enough."

"The other Stones glow blue whenever they get near those places," Michael said. "Why doesn't this one?"

"It does. You have not seen its true form. And you have not heard its true voice, for it has not yet called to you. But it will one day. And when it does, heed its summons. It will lead you to the truth of your destiny." He passed the Lodestone to Michael as if it were an orb and scepter. In doing so, his arm faltered, and Michael had to support it with his own. "You see? The power is now yours to wield. Not mine or Klima's. We're nearly spent."

"Not yet," came a voice. The Lodestone sounded its clarion, and its spiral shone forth.

"He's here!" Michael cried. The light Neila had created earlier had continued to dwindle, unnoticed; the corridor from the dome was now nearly pitch dark. Out of its darkness a figure sprang at Michael: Maria recognized the face as her father's. This was the real Nasedo–Klima! She grabbed back the gun and fired at him. This time her aim was true, and he doubled over with a groan. Michael reclaimed the gun from her. "No more weapons for you," he said. "You can't be trusted with them."

Clenching his teeth, summoning every grain of energy left to him, Klima lifted his shirt and thrust his thumb and forefinger into his belly, whose flesh melted to admit them. At the same time he opened his jaws and produced a sound resembling a death rattle. When the thumb and finger re-appeared, the bullet was clasped between them. Klima emitted a long, weary sigh and then addressed Maria in a rasping whisper. "Ill-bred child! To shoot your own father."

"Excuse me, we've established you're _not._"

Slyness crept into his half-shut eyes. "But how you wish I were. It wasn't me you were trying to kill just now. It was him."

"No!"

"You ought to thank me for having spared you the task. The ingratitude of you humans." He turned his scorn on Feddin. "And you take their side, monk." The description surprised the others, yet it seemed to fit somehow.

"I'm no monk."

"No. And no immortal either." With more strength than they had suspected he had left in him, Klima conjured up a ball of lightning and sent it spinning toward his enemy. But its speed was only half of what he had willed, and Michael was able to block it. Klima did not send a second.

Michael outlined a strip on the floor and made it rise, elongating itself as it went like a window blind being pulled in reverse, all the way to the ceiling. It made a wall between themselves and Klima. "Time you bailed," Michael told Feddin.

"And you."

"It's you he's after, not us."

"He's right," said Neila. Feddin nodded. The new wall blocked the exit to the dome, but there was a door at the front of the house. The children hurried to it, and Feddin followed.

"Thank you," Michael said. "For all you showed me."

Feddin smiles. "You showed it to yourself. I only pointed out the way."

"Will we ever see each other again?"

"So I sense. But in a different channel of vision."

"Like UPN?" asked Maria, who was feeling a little lost.

"Farewell," said Feddin, "until that time."

As he and the others left, Michael remained at the wall, prepared for a further attack, but none came, except for the tempter's raspings on the other side: "You've chosen the wrong ally, ship-born. But your friends won't. The day will come when you'll have to fight them, or join them." And this was followed by more, much more, of the same. Worry began to champ at Michael: he knew which side was the right one, but the others did not, and they would not believe him if he told them, any more than they had ever listened to him before; they would throw in with Klima, and their combined powers would be much stronger than his and Feddin's, with the latter as weak as he was, and then it would all be over, the world would be–

Suddenly, like a bubble popping, the worry ended. Michael realized Klima had been feeding it into his brain, like wartime propaganda transmitted over the radio. But he had stopped now; the Balancer had gone dark. "He's gone," said Michael, and he returned the wall he had made into the floor.

A minute earlier they had heard Feddin's car take off, and now they heard the growl of another one in the distance. Leaving by way of the dome, they saw a pair of headlights winding through the flats in their direction. "That would be Agent Topolsky," said Maria. She went to pick up her bag, which was still lying by the wall of the dome.

"I understand what you did," said Michael. "I want you to know that." He added, after a pause, "I hope you understand what _I_ did."

"I do now."

"Feddin taught me so much." Surveying the night sky, he spied the V shape, which Maria had forgotten all about. "Like that. When the ships came in, that's where they discharged their surplus energy. Every type of energy operates to a certain pattern, called an energy signature. In this case it's a V. It's linked to the original source–which _is_ part of Aries, by the way–and also to the other outlets here on Earth. Like this one." For Maria this was one step too many; her confusion showed in her face. "The points on the map," Michael reminded her. "The library–"

"–Angels' Ground, rocks, railroad museum," she recited. Michael was surprised that she knew them too. "Number five, unknown. Or did he tell you?"

"He didn't know either."

"But it's his map!"

"He dreamed it, and just painted what the dream showed him. But he did say the spiral isn't like the other symbols. It isn't a picture of any place, it's a rune from their alphabet. A rune of power, he said."

"So what does it mean?"

"It can mean more than one thing, depending on the direction you're looking." Michael read her expression. "No, I don't get it either." He slapped his forehead suddenly. "I'm getting sidetracked here. What I wanted to say is, Feddin taught me that fighting's not the answer. It might have been on our planet, but not here." The next admission came hard, but only from lack of practice. "I was wrong, okay? But so were you, coming after us the way you did. If we can both get past that–"

Maria would have liked to. But no. "It's no good, Michael," she said.

"What isn't?"

"Us. Now."

"Why?"

"You heard about Liz?"

"The blood poisoning? I can fix that."

"_You_ can?" If so, he had been right about having learned a lot.

"Molecular regeneration. You have to watch what you're doing, but–yeah. Not a problem. So we can still–"

"No." Maria would not allow herself to forget the main issue, the only issue. "When we were faced with a choice, you chose Nasedo–the one you thought was Nasedo–and I chose my family."

Michael could not believe she was still hung up on that. "That's history."

"History is who we are. It's _all_ we are." Maria had not realized this until she said it. "My father is dead. The one who killed him was one of you."

"And the father that beat me up was one of you. So?"

"So, we're enemies. You had it right the first time. Obviously we don't have to kill each other. But we can't–do the other thing either. It's in the genes. Oil and water." She repeated the last three words, faintly. And they were the last to be said; at any rate, Michael could think of no good reply. The two of them stood silently and unhappily in the white glare of the headlights, which were now very close, and drawing closer. When they were five or six yards away, they stopped and then went dark, at the same time that the car they belonged to–a black Impala–went silent. Michael remembered, almost too late, that he was still holding the Lodestone. He quickly dropped it into Maria's bag.

Topolsky stepped out of the car and cast her eyes around. "Okay, where is he?" Michael and Maria pretended to look even more ignorant than teens did naturally, by Topolsky's observation. "Come off it! I know he's here. This is the only place that makes sense." The FBI was smarter than Maria had given them credit for. "The only car I passed on the road had a mother and two–" Only then did she realize what she had done, or failed to do. "I should have taken a closer look. They can't change shape, can they? But _he_ can." She gazed out at the dark hills with an air of regret. "And this was my last chance. To know for a moral certainty what was true and what wasn't."

A second pair of headlights was closing on them. "Lay you odds that's Agent Stevens. Into the car. Hurry." The other two hesitated, confused: weren't she and Stevens on the same side? "Trust me," she said, "you don't want to be found here." Once inside–Maria in back, Michael in front–they discovered that Topolsky had come there alone, which they were pretty sure was not the standard protocol for raiding the hideout of a suspected serial killer. She kept the lights off as she cruised around to the rear of the dome and then steered for the hills, driving half-blind, but also invisible to Stevens (if it were Stevens) and also, she hoped, eclipsed from his view by the Atherton buildings. She found, or knew, a pass through the hills and emptying onto the 385, which after a drive of a few hours intersected the highway they wanted: the highway to Roswell.

During most of the ride the three did not speak, so preoccupied was each of them with concerns too private to share. Maria had done what she had come for, though not in the way she had expected: she had killed her father's murderer, but he was not the one she had thought he was, and he had brought himself back to life; this did not change the feeling that she had discharged her duty, and she was willing to let the matter rest there. After a little she fell asleep.

She woke some time later to hear whispers from the front seat.

"I need information."

"Again?"

"Of course. It's my–it's what I do."

"Then I don't have a choice, do I?"

"Now, don't be moody." The tone was almost flirtatious. "You were a great help last time. You always are. We'll talk more at your place."

This exchange stayed with Maria all the way home. When the Impala deposited her at last in her driveway, she unloaded a look of disappointment on Michael which puzzled him deeply. He had not seen it when she had had him marked as Nasedo's accomplice; what could be worse than that?

To Maria, it was this: Before her adventure, she would have believed Michael capable of collaborating with Nasedo–but never with Topolsky. Nasedo was not their personal enemy; they had made themselves his. But Topolsky was, and always had been; that was one of the core beliefs their group shared. Either Michael had abandoned the loyalties he had lived by–which was bad enough–or they had never been real and she had never really known him–and this was worse, this hurt the most. It was now night again, and Maria watched as the Impala was swallowed up into the darkness.

She turned toward her house reluctantly, not quite ready to abandon the life of the road, brief as her experience of it had been, for the calmer waters of home life. But as soon as her mother appeared in the doorway and the first sight of her daughter safe and sound purged her face of its fears, Maria could not help feeling happy–dizzyingly happy. They ran to hug each other. "Honey!" said Amy. "Jim and I have been so worried."

Only then did Maria take account of the figure standing just inside the door. She gently disengaged from the embrace. Her mother touched the black foliage Maria did not remember having. "What'd you do to your hair?"

Jim looked annoyed. "Guess we can cancel that missing persons report." They followed him into the living room.

As he took up the handset of the phone, Maria recalled the alibi she had prepared. "Didn't you get my message?"

Amy's face took on a rather severe look. "You mean about Erica? Their machine says the family's on vacation."

This part, Maria had rehearsed in the car on the way back. "Yeah, they took me with them. It was great. Sorry to run out on you–"

"I'm the one who should be sorry. It must have been an ordeal for you." _You have no idea_, thought Maria. "I can't say I had any feelings left for your father. But he _was_ your father. You know, you could have talked it over with Jim. He's helped a lot of young people with their problems."

"These would be the ones he had put away?"

Valenti had finished his call in time to hear this. "Hey, I'm not that bad. Besides, it's time you and me started getting closer." He winked at her. "A _lot_ closer."

Maria averted her eyes. "Um, if you're actually hitting on me with my mom in the room, this is 'way stranger than anything I care to be involved in."

"No, no!" He stepped up to Amy and put an arm around her. "Better tell her, babe."

Maria did not like that, or the arm. "Yeah, why don't you," she said, in an acid tone, "_'babe'_?"

"I was getting there." Amy sounded slightly defensive. "Honey, you know how I've always said life has a way of balancing the bitter with the sweet?"

"I never heard you say that."

"Well, I just did. You lost a father–now you're gaining one. Jim and I are going to be married." Maria stared at them; they both seemed to be channeling the identical smiley face. She felt as if she had crossed over into a dream state, more unreal than her experience with the two Nasedos. "We'll be a real family again," said her mother. "That is, for the first time."

"Without secrets," Valenti said pointedly.

"Won't it be wonderful?" said her mother.

"See me fight to contain my rapture." Her eyes were full of dread.

A second later, it turned to panic. She had caught sight of her knit bag, which she had tossed carelessly onto the sofa; inside it a corner of the Lodestone was showing. Maria quickly reached over and shook the bag. The Lodestone slipped from sight. She breathed a sigh of relief. But how many more close calls would there be? _My father the sheriff_, she thought, _and his daughter the felon._ Luckily, she was only guilty of _attempted_ murder. But no: on second thought, she decided there was nothing lucky about any of it.

Late that night under the stars, and the lights that were not stars, an old man with long white hair, held in place with a plain cotton band, sat beside the placid river in the Frazier Woods. One he had known, wearing the shape he had known him by, walked out from the trees to sit beside him. River Dog did not have to look up. "My friend," he said. "I hoped we would meet again one day. They told me you were a killer."

"They told you what they believed. What do you believe?"

River Dog nodded. "I knew it was a lie."

"The days pass quickly for us both. I think this will be our last meeting."

"Yet it may be we will walk together after, in the forest that has no end." He reached out his hand.

As River Dog clasped it, his tears blurred it to his sight. "I will hold this as my hope."

"And so will I." They parted hands. The visitor rose and left as he had come.

Before going to bed that night, Maria took out the family album, to speak again, as she had before leaving, to the space where her father's picture had been. "Dad–" She stopped as a jolt shot through her: the picture was back now. She flipped through to the picture of her and Roman; it was back too. She started to go ask her mother if she had found them and restored them to their places–and then Maria knew, as surely as anything could be known, that she had not: _he_ had. He had returned to put them back, he had been _there_, in the house, maybe in the form of Valenti, or of her mother–or of _her._ And he might come again at any time, in the same form or in whatever form he chose. From now on she could never be sure of anyone again.

After arriving at school the next day, one of her first acts (as the impositions of her academic schedule permitted) was to get together with Liz to resolve two matters very much on her mind. The first one, she quickly disposed of–or had thought she had–while they were visiting the girls' room and Liz was occupied in one of the stalls. But she came out in time to catch Maria in the mirror. "What did you just put in my purse?" she demanded She extracted the object, which was wrapped in a muslin rag.

Maria glanced around edgily. "Don't let anyone see it!"

"There's no one else here," Liz pointed out. She unfolded the rag. "Maria! I don't want this back!"

"If it's with me Valenti will find it. He's in the house, like, all the time now."

In the face of this threat Liz agreed to accept the consignment provisionally. But before they were finished with their break she had spotted Isabel in the quad and hastened out to her to arrange a transfer of the property without delay. "_You_ take this," she said, exposing part of it for Isabel to see.

But Isabel was not one to be ordered, especially by Liz, and especially in this matter; if anyone was going to be giving orders, it was her. "Put that thing away!"

"It's not safe at Maria's because of the sheriff."

"It's no different with us. Our parents are spies for Topolsky." Liz was nearly as shocked by this news as Isabel had been herself. "Why don't you try Michael?"

"Not a wise move," said Maria, who now joined them, having followed Liz at an ambling pace. "He's spying for her too."

"Michael?" It was Isabel's turn to be shocked again. "If that's true, there's no one else we can trust." She turned back to Liz. "Except you. You'll have to hold onto it for a while."

"Why should I be the one to take the risk? Max and I aren't even together any more."

"Liz, we've all taken risks."

Liz answered quietly. "I think I've been handed more than my share."

Isabel had not considered it in this light, and now saw the justice of Liz's position. "You're right. It's unfair to you. But I can't–" She stopped and considered. "Tell you what. You keep it for tonight, and I'll speak to Max about it. We'll–figure something out." Then she left them. Liz had no choice but to be content for the time being.

Throughout the conversation Maria had been trying to think of a way to work around to her second purpose, and once they were alone again, Liz saw the marks of her thinking inscribed on her face. "Something else?"

"Yeah, um, another favor–last one, promise. What it is is, I kind of got in trouble with my boss for taking all those days off. Which, needless to say, my teachers aren't thrilled about either. But they have to take me back and my boss doesn't–_won't_, actually. So what it comes to is, I'm out of a job. And I was wondering if you'd be willing to talk to your dad about letting me re-up." Liz opened her mouth and held it in that position. "Liz, did you hear me?"

"Right, Maria, the thing is–"

She was interrupted by Michael, stamping up to them from the same direction in which Isabel had left. "You!" he shouted, pointing at Maria.

"You yourself," she retorted, unfazed.

"Did you tell Isabel I was a mole?"

"Why, did I blow your cover?"

"I'm not!"

"I heard you and Topolsky talking in the car."

"That was none of your business. Anyway, she's not with the FBI any more. She lost her job."

The removal of Topolsky as a threat considerably altered Maria's feelings about the situation, and she now tried to re-route the discussion into the area of friendly chat. "Wow, you know, now, that's a coincidence. Because I was just telling Liz–"

"Lost her job how?" Liz had noticed lately how impatient with irrelevancies she had become; she put it down to stress.

"Arrested the wrong person, apparently." Liz pondered this as Michael resumed talking to Maria. "She's been through a lot of stuff. If you talked to her–" He shook his head. "Forget it. You actually believed I'd rat you out to the FBI?"

"You didn't trust me either, when you had the chance."

"Guess I was right, then, huh?" And with that, he stamped off again, no happier than when he had arrived.

He left Maria upset, and quivering in her upset. "_Ohh...!_ Breathe deep, breathe deep..." She suited the act to the word. "What was I saying before?" Liz hoped it had slipped her mind. "_Oh_, yes. So if you could arrange to get me back in at the Crashdown, it would be helpful. In the way of financial remuneration, ¿comprende?"

"Absolutely. That would be–perfect." Liz nodded several times and opened her mouth twice before further speech emerged. "See, Maria, the thing is, my dad and I aren't exactly seeing eye to eye these days. With the divorce and everything. Plus which, he's hired somebody else to cover your hours. So a rehire would be–problematic. At this stage." She smiled hopefully. "You understand."

"Yeah," said Maria, "I get it." She had once accused Liz of being an ice maiden; at that moment Liz had nothing on her.

"It isn't that I don't want to help–"

"Of course not. How I could ever form a mistaken notion like that?" Maria watched the horde of students passing her by. "You're no different from the rest of them. Ursula Slavin, Pam Troy–the 'nice' kids. To you, I'm a nobody. Disposable."

Liz could not believe her ears. "Maria!"

"That's the one thing me and Michael had in common. Wrong side of the tracks, wrong side of the bed–wrong side of everything."

"It's not like that at all!" Liz knew this sounded too glib, too prim, and too everything else she was at her least likable.

"Well, when you figure out how it is, you be sure and let me know." Maria's voice broke on the last words, but she was determined not to let Liz see her cry. So she walked away. "Maria! Please!" she heard behind her, but she would not–could not–look back. She owed her pride, and her family's, that much.

She did not weep, nor did any of the other mourners (so called) at the funeral of Alberto Antonio Deluca (July 17, 1953 – April 8, 2000); it began, it ended, and they left. Maria lingered as if wanting to say something to him, but when her mother called, she came. She returned later, when the cemetery was empty except for the dead, and she knelt before his headstone, but not in an attitude of prayer.

"Dad," she said, "Dad, Dad. I don't remember much about you. And I'm sure you didn't remember much of me either. How could you? You weren't working at the time, but you for sure weren't hanging around the house–though I remember once you took me out for an ice cream. Then you disappeared, and the years slid by–years without you, and more years without even the sense of you. And then you came back. You _did_ come back. True, it was to rip Mom off–but we all gotta look out for ourselves, ¿es verdad?"

She was staring off to some place, or no place–any place. "See, Dad, the deal is, as of the moment I don't have a boyfriend, or a best friend, or a job. I'm even–" Her voice broke again. "–even losing Mom. And you could say, in a way, I did it all for you. The good daughter. So we're quits now. For the ice cream." She was silent for a few seconds. Then she mouthed a word that began with an "f", ended with an "r", and was not "father"; it was the last word she ever spoke to him, alive or dead.

Maria had been abandoned. And that was how she felt. She could do nothing about the fact, but she would not permit the feeling: as she walked back home, she kicked it farther away from her with every step–and they were loud steps. She vowed never again to be lonely, just alone; two different things, and alone was better. As far as she could foresee any future for herself at that moment, those were the only options on the horizon.

**Episode 1.20X**

**A Darker Sun**

He was close this time, real close. He could smell it. A man developed a nose for these things–and he had had the benefit of nearly forty years in which to sharpen his senses. The e.t.s had slithered out (or lumbered, or oozed, or whatever the hell it was they did) somewhere near there, give or take a few miles–or a few hundred. Give him time (if he lived that long) and he would home in on the ship that had spewed them out–not what he and the others had found, 'way back in '47, but what they had _not_ found.

Sgt. Yancy Swift, U.S. Army Air Corps (Ret.), combed the ground foot by foot, inch by inch. A canvas satchel, stamped "Property of U.S. Army," hung from his shoulder. He moved slowly, both from age and by deliberate method, bent almost in an L (his energy configuration, as Michael might have called it). He glimpsed something gleaming in the dirt two feet away, knelt down, and extracted it. The answering gleam it brought to his eye would have puzzled most observers: it was only a scrap of metal. He transferred it eagerly to his satchel.

A shadow somewhere blocked the sun. Swift looked toward it. A man (if it was a man) was standing on top of the hillock ahead. He descended toward Swift, who squinted to see him better. "What do you want?" he asked. "Are you–one of them?" The stranger did not answer but continued his advance. He strode up to Swift and confiscated his satchel, nearly wrenching his shoulder off as he did so. "Hey, that's mine!" Swift protested. He felt the stranger clutch at his neck. Pain shot into him, followed by a yawning blackness.

As he lay inert on the ground, the stranger rifled through the satchel and tossed aside first one and then another of the pieces so painstakingly collected, and flung the bag away contemptuously. Then he turned to the ex-airman's unconscious body and regarded it with a cold eye, almost an appraiser's eye, as if calculating whether it were worth putting to some practical use of his own.

That was on Saturday. Two days later began a new school week that would be the longest of Max Evans's life.

The incident that kicked it off was not momentous; it was almost shabby. In a shallow stairwell located at one of the side exits from the physical sciences building (which was also the shop building), Kyle Valenti and two of his fellow Comets–easily identifiable by their blue and gold lettermen's jackets–were crouching beside a device which in a different setting would quickly have been recognized as a pneumatic tire pump. A long hose ran out of it along the floor of the stairwell into a drainage pipe set in one of the walls. Kyle and one of his teammates were peering over the wall and the other one had his hands on the pump handle. At Kyle's signal he pressed it down, and then he raised his head to watch along with the other two. A moment later all were convulsed with laughter, which they strove manfully to suppress.

It was then that Max happened to emerge through the exit door into the stairwell, nearly bumping into Kyle, and spurring him to a churlish "Hey, ace, wanna watch where you're going?" However, when he saw who it was, his manner changed at once. "Max! Say, hi. So what's up?"

His smile of exaggerated friendliness, Max saw through at once. He ran his eye over the apparatus the three had set up. "What's that thing for?" he asked. Kyle scratched the back of his neck absently, and they all looked in different directions. "Okay, skip it," said Max. "I was only asking to be polite." He started up the stairs.

Kyle laid a hand on his arm. "Wait." He seemed anxious on second thought to keep Max there. "You're a guy, you'll appreciate this." The side of the building they were on faced a walkway; the drainage pipe, Max now saw, ran directly under this and appeared to end at a grating in the middle. Kyle pointed out a girl coming up the walk, gestured to Max to crouch down, and did the same himself. Then he signaled to the pump man, who pressed the handle again. As the girl stepped over the grating her skirt flew up, partly revealing her briefs; she gave a little shriek and at the same time, thrown off guard, she caught her heel on one of the bars, stumbled, and dropped her books, at the same time as she was smoothing her skirt down. She somehow managed to avoid a fall, to Max's relief, but as she collected up her books her eyes darted around suspiciously. Max could not see whether her embarrassment had been witnessed by any students other than themselves.

Those with him in the stairwell had ducked down and were clutching their mouths tightly, having a struggle again to contain themselves. "Ain't it a hoot?" Kyle whispered. He seemed not to have noticed that Max was not laughing.

"That's _it_?" said Max.

"My granddad told me once they used to have something like this at county fairs when he was a kid. I was telling Paulie–you know Paulie and Tommy?"

"Yeah, they beat me up one time."

"Oh, right, I forgot. It was nothing personal, they woulda done the same to anybody."

"Ah. Must be great guys, then."

"I knew you'd see it. Anyway, so Tommy figured out how to run the hose through the drain so it blows up girls' dresses and shows their underpants."

"And this is the first time any of you have seen girls' underwear?"

"That's not the point."

Max remained sober of countenance. "What _is_ the point, Kyle?"

"The look on their faces! Like they've been–I don't know–"

"Violated? Ritually abused?"

Kyle looked upon him with pity. "You just don't get it, do you?"

"One of those girls might be Liz. Or my sister."

"Aw, Liz is a good sport." Kyle considered. "I don't know your sister."

"Why should she have to be a 'sport' and put up with your juvenile pranks?"

"'Pranks'? Who says 'pranks' now?" He looked to his friends for enlightenment; they shrugged. Then he put an arm around Max's shoulder in big-brotherly fashion. "See, Evans, you may not be aware of it, but this is the kind of thing guys do when they get together. Just stupid stuff like this. That's what it means to be a guy." He peered out again. "Here comes another one!" Tommy moved his hands into place on the pump and Kyle gave the signal. "Now!" he whispered.

A larger pair of hands descended on Tommy's, arresting them in mid-push. "I don't think so," their owner said. The others turned to discover Principal Wiley in the stairwell with them; all their faces, except Max's, convicted them without a trial. "May I ask who borrowed this device from the auto shop?" said Wiley. After a moment's hesitation, both Kyle and Paulie raised their hands. "You may return it to where you found it. You've earned yourselves detention this Saturday." He cocked his head at Tommy. "You, get out of here." Max began to follow him. "Not you, Evans."

"But I wasn't–"

"My office. Now."

Max took in with him an unconcealed air of grievance, which he was not slow to give voice to. "I wasn't part of that out there. I was just an innocent bystander."

Wiley was staring out his office window. "Yes, I know. I heard the whole conversation."

"Then what am I doing here?"

Wiley strode back to his desk and leveled a penetrating stare on him. "Tell me something. Who _are_ you, Evans?"

Max paled. "Why–why would you ask me that?"

"For a long time now I've had my eye on your friend Michael Guerin. He's always turning wrong corners, always bucking the system. But maybe he's just a noise maker, and _you're_ the square peg. Why did you choose not to take part in Mr. Valenti's little prank?"

Kyle's earlier question was thus answered definitively, but Wiley's seemed to Max askew somehow. "You _want_ your students to spend their lunch hours looking up girls' dresses?" he asked.

"Of course not! It's my place to frown on such behavior. But not you, at your age. You should be champing at the bit to pull down a girl's pants. If you're not, there's something wrong with you." A suspicion flashed into his mind. "You do _like_ girls, don't you?" Then he remembered. "Of course–the incident with Ms. Parker in the eraser room. To tell you the truth, that relieved my mind about you. I thought, finally, he's learned how to be human." Max's face reflected his astonishment, mixed with fear that he had been found out, but he quickly masked both feelings with his customary bland, blank demeanor. "Until then," Wiley went on, "whenever I'd see the two of you together, it seemed like she was there for you, but you were only half there for her. Where's the other half, Evans? Saving it for a rainy day? Or is it like the theoretical black hole? Things go in, but nothing ever comes out?"

Max squirmed a little in the big chair. Usually he had no high opinion of Wiley's perspicuity, but this time he had hit it on the button. "Whatever the condition," he said, "I've got just the treatment."

He picked off a Xeroxed flyer from a stack in his top right drawer and reached it over the desk to Max, who read it over–and then read it over again. He thought he must be missing something, and then realized that he was not; Wileywas. "Country line dancing?"

"Best thing there is," said Wiley, "for developing socialization skills. Great workout too. Our group meets on Wednesdays. Will we see you at our next meeting?"

"It's–sure something to think about." Max was at a loss how else to answer. "Thank you," he added.

Wiley nodded smugly and told him he could go now.

Once out in the hall, Max deposited the flyer in the first trash barrel he came to; he would have to remain unsocialized, he decided. But the rest of Wiley's message stayed with him, like a muscle cramp he could not shake. And Wiley's first question, which had so disconcerted Max at first hearing, he was now asking himself: _Who are you, Evans?_

He and Liz had not spoken that day, or the previous few days. Now that Michael and Maria were back, Liz had no plausible reason to approach him, and he would have felt awkward approaching her. She had been equally out of touch with her oldest friend of all. But him she found an excuse for visiting after school that afternoon.

She found his garage door raised and Alex himself busy clearing out the Whits' former rehearsal space. "Alex," said Liz, "hey." Focused on unscrewing a mike stand, he hardly acknowledged her arrival, and Liz wondered at this a little, it was so unlike him. "Saw your flyer on the bulletin board at school," she said. "You're selling your guitar?" The question was redundant, since the instrument was lying in plain sight with a "For Sale" sign propped against it.

"Yeah, I thought of smashing it up–very rock-idol thing to do, but environmentally unfriendly. Besides, I can use the cash."

Liz stared at him as if she had never known him. "But what about your music? You were so committed to it."

"Aw, it's no good now. I can't hear it the way I used to."

"Alex, a slight hearing loss is a simple condition to–"

"Not hearing loss. Anyway, not that kind." Alex seemed a little embarrassed. "I used to hear music everywhere I went. Really _heard_ it, like I was receiving it from some other plan–some other place. And all I had to do was write down what I heard. Now it's not there any more. It is for some kid somewhere, I'm sure. Just not for me."

Liz thought of a possible explanation. "Is Isabel still avoiding you? Or are you avoiding her?"

"Both. We agreed it's for the best."

"Yeah, Maria isn't speaking to me either. You know, you and I are the only two whose friendship hasn't changed. Since the fourth grade. That's something to–" Alex was looking away from her, biting his lip. "Alex, what is it? Tell me."

He was silent for a few moments. "I've had a lot of big ideas, in the day. The pancake burger, clothes that never need washing, house with a convertible top–but never mind that. The point is, the Whits were the only idea I ever got going, and now they're gone. Oh, we could find a new guitarist, but it wouldn't be the same."

"And you blame me." _Of course he would_, she thought; she blamed herself.

"I know it's not fair, Nicky's dad was a maniac and he tried to carve up Max or whatever–"

"I understand. I do." Alex began to apologize to her. "No, I mean, I really do." Best to leave, and not linger; her recent experience had taught her to remain unsentimental in such situations. "Have a good sale, Alex," she said, and then rethought. "No, have a _great_ sale. And a great life." Another thread cut; maybe the last of all. She left sadly and resignedly for home.

If she could have seen Max just then, and could have felt any more unhappy than she did already, she certainly would have. He was sitting on his bed among piles of his belongings–clothes, CDs, books, sports equipment–examining each of the items in turn and then putting it down with an air of dissatisfaction. "I give up," said a voice behind him. He turned to see his sister in the doorway. "What are you doing?" she asked. "If I'm not being too nosy."

"You are." Isabel predicted he would give a fuller answer on the count of three. She began counting: _one–two–_ "Wiley called me in today," said Max. "He says I'm only half a person. And, Isabel, he's right. Half of me is there, the other half is–a void. Where something should be, there's nothing–nothing at all." He looked at her hopefully. "Do you have any idea what I mean?"

It was clear that the topic bothered her. "I don't think about it. I find enough things to keep me occupied so I _won't_ think about it. And you still haven't said what you're doing."

"Looking for that other part of me. The dark side of the moon."

"In this stuff?"

Max looked it over again. "No. I can see that now. But how, then?"

"I'll tell you, but you won't like it." Max waited. "Intuition." He shook his head. "You see? The word frightens you."

"It's not the word."

"All it means is knowing, but without knowing why."

"I don't have any intuition. You do, I don't."

"That's silly. Everyone does. You just have to–slide back the door."

"Then why haven't you? If it's as easy as all that."

Isabel knew what he meant. Why hadn't she acknowledged that side of herself: her alien side? Not her powers, which she had (for a time) worked to develop, but what lay within her: her thoughts and feelings–if he and she had any feelings beyond those that were human; Isabel could not be sure they did, and she was not eager to find out. "Because I don't want to," she said. "Not yet. It would mean the end of everything we know." She gazed around the room. "This, at least."

"This _will_ end some day," said Max. "For us. It has to."

"You know that?" He nodded. "But without knowing why." In saying this Isabel tried to look wise, rather than superior, because she was not feeling superior at all. However, Max had to admit to himself that this time his sister might be right.

That evening he stationed himself outside the UFO Center, where he could stare across at Liz when she passed into view behind the cafe's blue gingham curtains. On one such pass, she glanced out and saw him watching her–or imagined she did; he _was_, of course, but at that distance she was probably unable to tell for sure. He saw her break into a smile, which she cut short–or he imagined he did; he probably could not tell, either. It did not matter. Whether either had truly seen or not, each knew, without seeing, what the other would do. They were that close.

Then all at once his perception of her changed: she seemed to have receded, as if one or the other of them had moved a block farther away. She turned from him, unsure of herself, of him, and of the two of them together. And he felt hurt–but only a part of him did; another part–the part that was now observing her from a distance, as she did her microscope specimens–that part did not care. Looking from her to the street, he discovered that the whole town now seemed to him a foreign country. He felt as remote from the passers-by as if he were separated from them by a dense force field. Then all at once it burst, and he was back in the midst of them: his neighbors who were also strangers, in a strange land which was also his home. It all confused him beyond his ability to sort it out right then and there. Yet he had to sort it out; and when Liz looked across again, he was gone.

Great as her disappointment was, it was surpassed by her relief; she too was having trouble sorting things out. He and she distrusted each other, and with reason: she had betrayed him; he had spurned her. But she had not known about Grunewald, any more than he knew about the blood poisoning–and after all, she had only herself to blame for that. Reason advised her she had been more in the wrong than he had, but hurt feelings kept her from admitting it.

Yet he still loved her. He might not know it, but she did, and always would. However he might try to persuade her otherwise, however she might try to persuade herself, her faith in the fact was inalterable beyond persuasion. And it made her desire him very deeply–no matter what he had done, no matter what he could ever do. Her mind held enough authority over her senses to suppress the desire but could never eradicate it. Once, in the seventh grade, she had gone without liquids for a day, to see if she could do it; the experiment had succeeded, but had left her with a greater thirst than she had ever known–and it had never quite gone away since. So it was now.

Max went where he always went when his human life became unmanageable: to the desert. He found a precipice from which he could look down on Roswell–a toy town full of tiny lights, beneath a sky sprinkled with tiny lights of its own. He stared up at those brilliant pinpricks in the black-blue curtain, and suddenly he found himself among them, looking down at the lights of Roswell far below. Those seemed to grow even smaller, and smaller still, merging finally into one light that was infinitely far away. Then suddenly he was back on Earth again, and the stars were in their places above.

Max dropped to his knees in supplication to them, or to other bodies he could not see. "I shouldn't be here, but I am. Why?" They did not answer him. "This place is everything to me. Yet it's nothing. Liz is everything to me, yet–" He suppressed the inescapable conclusion. "_No!_" he shouted. His voice echoed across the desert. He let the echoes die away until he could hear only his own breathing. "You were wrong, Isabel." He was not sure if he had spoken it or only thought it, or if there was a difference between the two. "It isn't knowing without knowing why. It's _seeing_ without _seeing_ why." He got up. "How can I live without seeing?" The world around him seemed not to care. "If I have to live blind, I don't want to live!" He ran toward the precipice and poised at the edge, ready to throw himself down–

–when he heard the sound: the beeping he had heard before: the voice of the Lodestone. But this time the Stone was calling to him. He heard it as plainly as if he were holding it in his hand. He raised his head to the great round moon that hung over the valley, and he saw both its sides: the one facing him, with a face that was Feddin's, and the side that could only be seen with a keener sense than vision: the dark side, whose face was swathed in shadow.

Isabel and Michael were waiting for him on his return, waiting in the park where they had met before in the weeks past. But it was different this time; they all knew it. Max seemed to have a size to him the others had not seen before. Their childhood's end was drawing near.

"You both heard it?" asked Max. The other two nodded. "Was it real?"

"You have to ask?" said Isabel.

"I think he means, real to _them_," said Michael.

"We hear it, they don't," Isabel explained. "You must have triggered it yourself."

"I did? How?"

"By wanting to know."

Max understood now. "Let's go, then. It's time." He started off; the others did not move. "Well?"

"I told you before," said Isabel. "I don't want to know yet. Neither does Michael."

Michael nodded in confirmation. "Isabel says you think we're half-baked or half-assed or something. Well, _this_ half's as much as I can deal with right now. There's more power out there than I knew–and not only out there." He placed a hand on his own brow. "It's scary."

Max could not believe they would _not_ want to come. "But this is _it._ This is what we've been waiting for all our lives."

"We're not ready, Max," said Isabel. "Neither of us. I'm sorry, but you'll have to go alone."

"Alone? How can I?"

"It makes no difference whether you're with someone or not. You're always alone. We all are. That's who we are." She seemed to have grown wiser by his experience.

Max's eyes met hers and then Michael's. He saw a sadness in both of them he had not seen before, or had not noticed. "Then you do know. Both of you."

"As much as we want to right now," said Michael.

"Okay," Max said at last. "But I may call for you before it's through. You can't sit in the park forever." Neither of them contradicted him.

"And before you leave," said Isabel, "go and heal Liz."

"I will if I can."

"Any of us can, now." She knew Michael had learned as much from Feddin as she had from his stepdaughter. "But it should be you."

"She'll have to trust me. She wouldn't before."

"Should she have? Or should you have trusted her?"

"No," Max admitted. "And for different reasons than we thought. But she will now." He saw ahead, and it made him sad. "Whether she should or not."

He knew the way to her window; it was open, as it always was. Liz lay asleep, her head buried in a pile of pillows. Max slipped in under the rice paper blind, then knelt beside her and gazed on her tenderly. Her face, her hair, the aura of grace and delight she radiated, all things about her, he still loved–or at least the human part of him did.

It was not long before she opened her eyes. She was startled at first by his being there, but only at first, and was not offended, as she might have been. Max had been right: one look–one real look–between them, and yesterday's mistrust was forgiven, if not forgotten. "I'm sorry," he said. "So sorry."

"It was my fault." Her words tumbled out on top of his. "I should never have gone there, never sent you there."

"You couldn't help yourself. You had to know about me–what I am. I see that now. Because I do too."

"If there's anything I–if there's anything at all–"

"There is something." He indicated the pillows behind her. "In there."

Liz sat up, and her bedcovers fell off, revealing her negligee. She felt no shame, or even embarrassment, but for some reason her heart began to pound faster. A beeping arose from the pillow at the bottom of the pile. "Someone will hear!" she whispered.

Max reached down and inserted his hand into the pillow slip. As soon as he had touched the small object within, the beeping stopped. "May I take it?" he asked softly.

"You're not taking it," said Liz, "I'm _giving_ it." She gazed at him with loving eyes. "It was always yours to have, anyway."

As Max withdrew his hand, Liz gave a small gasp of unexpected pleasure. She shut her eyelids to everything else. Max leaned over and kissed them. "Thank you," he whispered. Liz opened her eyes again. "I'm going out there now," Max said. "To the place where we came from, to find out who I am. If I come back–"

"If?" The word alarmed her.

"If I do, things will be different. But, whatever happens, it won't erase what we've had. This–_amazing_ thing we've had." His expression grew sober. "May I take your hand now?"

"I only wish," Liz said, with a different meaning.

Max held her hand between both of his, shut his eyes, and concentrated. A look of confusion came over his face. "How–" Then he understood, and he opened his eyes. "You don't _need_ healing. Your body has healed itself. Your blood has absorbed ours. Now it's stronger than ever."

It was Liz-the-scientist who responded to the news first, to assess whether or not she had cause to hope it was true. "No, that's impossible," she said. "Grunewald..." She looked for an explanation. "Maybe his blood was weak to start with and mine wasn't." It convinced her; she stared at Max. "I'm all right?" He nodded. "I'm all right," she repeated, in awe. A second later, the larger import of it struck her. "Then we can be together! I can come with you!"

"No." Max withdrew his hands. "You belong here. I don't."

"It's your home too."

"My home–and my prison." As he said this, he was so absorbed in his own feelings that he did not notice Liz's reaction. "I feel like a tissue sample on one of your slides. Stuck here by somebody I never knew and can't even imagine. My rightful place is with my people, if they still exist. Your place is with yours."

Liz's whole being denied this. "I don't have any people! My parents are breaking up, my best friends aren't speaking to me any more. You're all I have. Take me with you, Max. Please!" She bent in to him and kissed him deeply.

Max allowed the kiss to last longer than he knew it should, and then pulled away, though he did not want to; he would always not want to. "I'm sorry," he said, and he started to the window.

Liz flung herself after him. "Max! Don't leave me here! Don't leave me alone!"

He pulled away again, more forcibly this time. "No more!" he said. "This is goodbye." Then he left as he had come, through the window.

But if he thought that ended it, he was not really thinking, or thinking of Liz: of who she was. As he started away down the alley, he heard her call him. "Max!" she called, and he stopped; he had to–yet at the same time he had to go. Liz was descending to him by the fire ladder, still in her negligee, her curves highlighted by the twin-headed street lamp at the corner of the building. The ladder ended a few feet short of the pavement; she jumped down, landed on all fours–but gracefully, like a cat–and then picked herself up. The pavement was made of stone, with inlaid patterns of brick, patterns more intricate than Max had ever realized. As Liz stood to face him, her negligee rippled in the light wind. He had never seen anyone so beautiful.

Staring at her, he seemed to come to a decision. He waved his arm, and her negligee became a sandstone-hued gown, cut to an Attic pattern. Then he passed his arm across himself, and his apparel changed to a tunic the color of red clay. "Come with me, then," he said. "You can only come as far as the gate, no farther. And you'll have to return alone. But we can travel together, this little while."

He stretched out his hand. She reached out and took it. Hand in hand they turned and began to run, in long strides, with the wind lifting them, so they were almost flying–or _were_ they flying?

Much later–how much later Liz could not have said–they were camped together at the bottom of a valley encircled by high cliffs and visible only to the stars. She was lying propped up on one of her arms, a little apart from where Max was sitting with his knees raised, staring out onto the dark terrain. He had exchanged their classical attire for something less romantic but more practical, and better suited to the cold desert night: jeans, sweaters, and jackets. The Lodestone lay between the two of them, its spiral pulsating with light. "If only–" Liz began.

Max shook his head. "There are always if-onlys."

Liz continued undeterred. "If only we could stay like this forever. With the desert asleep all around us."

"It never really sleeps. Nothing does, in your world of ours." He turned his eyes on her–and they were not human eyes. Liz shrank away. A second later they had returned to normal. "_You_ did that," she said accusingly.

"I only raised the blind," said Max. "You saw what was there to be seen, as your perception translated it to you. And now you understand why you have to stop at the gate. What lies on the other side..." He paused. "...wasn't meant for your eyes. Only ours." And Liz shivered, for the first time that night.

When she woke in the morning all was grey. Max was already up, and waiting for her. Neither of them had brought along any provisions for the journey; Liz realized she had unconsciously trusted to him to take care of their needs. She would have enjoyed the usual morning comforts–a bath, a change of clothes, breakfast–but Max's quietly expectant air discouraged her from asking. She rose, and they set out.

In mid-morning they reached the outskirts of the Frazier Woods. These lay near the Pohlman ranch, where everyone knew the saucer had crashed in 1947. Inside Max's jacket the Lodestone began to beep, and they heard the growl of engines. A few seconds later a caravan of olive-drab Jeeps appeared on the road ahead. The pair ducked behind a clump of bushes. The Stone's beeping continued. Max removed his jacket and wrapped the Stone in it, muffling the noise enough so that it was drowned in those of the caravan. Of the official personnel who rode past them, most were Army, but a few were not; Max recognized one of them as Margaret Seaver, the director of BEAM.

The path the vehicles turned up, he recognized too: it led to the crash site. He and Liz followed at a distance. The beeping had now subsided. Within a few minutes they reached a fence, which had been newly repaired; a fresh sign on the gate labeled the compound as government property. "Was this the gate you meant?" Liz asked. Max shook his head.

Inside, the soldiers and civilians were met by others. When the last of the train had passed through the gate, a corporal swung it shut and secured the padlock. "The government's taking it over again," said Max. "The place the ship landed."

"Why, after all this time?" Liz asked.

"They must be looking for something." He thought of Seaver. "Energy, maybe."

"But there's nothing here any more. Is there?"

"There never was." He remembered Michael's account of what Feddin had said. "This was only the husk, the ship's outer body. The heart of it–the place _we_ came from–lies out there." He looked to the south. That, he knew, was the direction in which he had to go.

Liz was feeling pangs in her stomach, and they were growing sharper all the time. As Max walked ahead of her, showing no sign whatever of fatigue, the distance between them grew steadily. At long last, coming to the foot of a small rise–yet _another_ rise–she halted. "Max!" she called. "I'm thirsty!"

Max stopped and looked back with something like impatience. Then his face softened and he turned his eyes to a point on the ground a yard or so from where Liz was standing. A few drops of brown liquid seeped through to the surface and gradually expanded into a little pool. Liz peered into it questioningly. "Tea," Max said.

He turned to the sand at its edge, where a little ball arose, spinning as if in a kiln. A minute or two later it stopped spinning to reveal itself as a ceramic teacup. Liz marveled at it, as she always did at such productions, though she should have been used to them by now. And there was a second observer, hidden behind a rock and unnoticed so far by either of them; he was watching with even wider eyes.

Liz knelt to scoop up a helping of tea. "Careful," said Max. "It's hot."

She took a sip. "It's good. But not quite–"

"Yes, that's what Isabel says."

"You're not having any yourself?"

"I don't need any." It sounded like a rebuke. He allowed her to finish one cup and half of a second cup, and then he started on.

"Max?" she called again. "I'm hungry too."

This time his exasperation was audible. He turned to a dried shrub a few yards off. It began to dwindle. When it was done dwindling, it had become a teacake. The second observer was impressed all over again. Liz began to bite into the cake and then, remembering her manners, held it out to Max. He shook his head. She lit into it greedily. Before she was half finished, Max started off again. "Wait!" she said, picking herself up.

"I can't. I have too far to go." He continued walking and Liz hurried after; their unsuspected companion followed her at a distance. Soon Max had far outpaced them both. He climbed to a ridge that looked down on the plain they would have to cross. Liz labored most of the way up, and once at the top she halted. "Max, I have to rest."

"If you can't keep up, go back."

"I'm doing my best!"

"That's not good enough!" He had not meant to shout. But neither had she, and now she looked hurt. Max spoke more softly. "It's not your fault. It's mine. I was weak. I brought you along when I shouldn't have. That will just make it harder in the end. Return to Roswell, where you belong."

Liz moved toward him with a weary, heavy step. "I thought we were running away. Just the two of us."

"No!" Max cried. Liz recoiled at the force of it. "You haven't heard me! I'm going where I can find out who I am–what my purpose here is." His hands were pressed to his chest. "Everything I've been hungry to learn all these years."

"I know who you are!" She remembered she had not been so certain a few weeks before. "_Now_ I do," she amended. Love had told her. If she had only listened to it all along!

"You only see the part you want to see," Max said. "The part that fulfills you." Liz heard this as the accusation it was. He softened his tone again. "That isn't enough for me any more. I have to know the other side. Because there is one, whether you want to see it or not. And you're no help to me finding it. You're only–in the way."

Liz withstood the blow. "But we have something special." She looked imploringly at him. "Don't we?"

"Yes! That's what's holding me back–binding me!"

"Binding?" Liz repeated in a small voice.

"Liz, listen." Max's face and voice were showing increasing strain. "I have to break free. Free of everything. Otherwise I won't be able to do this. And I have to. If you have any feelings for me–"

Liz lashed out at him with the first words that came to her tongue. "Feelings? You're the one who wants to wipe out your feelings–wipe _me_ out. But I guess that's what your people are like, isn't it? Cold and selfish."

"And your people are childish and undisciplined. Always letting their feelings run riot."

"I'm not the one raising my voice, Max." She knew she was sounding priggish again, but she could not help herself.

"Because of you! _You!_" Max was trembling. "Just let me alone, can't you? If you hate me that much, it should be easy." He started off again.

Now Liz regretted all she had said. She ran after him, footsore as she was. "Max, I didn't mean it. I was angry. Please don't send me back. There's nothing for me in Roswell."

He turned on her. "That's not my problem now!"

"_Max!_" She ran at him in an attempt to embrace him. He shied to one side. They were standing nearer the edge than either of them realized. Liz took a wrong step and went over. "Liz!" Max cried. He reached out for her, but too late. The hill stood at an angle of about thirty degrees, so she slid instead of falling. But it ended in a sheer drop: the ground under Liz's feet gave out unexpectedly, and she plummeted eight or ten feet onto the hard earth.

From above Max heard her cry out. "Liz!" he shouted. "I'm coming!" He half jumped, half climbed down to her, and knelt by her side.

"My ankle!" she groaned.

"I'm sorry. I was angry too. Let me fix it." He tried to take Liz's hand; she pulled it away. "I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. I was only trying to explain–"

"That I'm in your way. Yeah, I got that." She turned her face from him.

"Liz!"

Then a shadow fell on both of them. On a hilltop west of the ridge a man was standing–and not the one who had been spying on them, but someone younger and bigger. The slope below him was a gentle one, and the way down to them was easy, so that it took him only a few minutes to reach them.

Liz was surprised to find herself staring into a face she knew. "Doug?"

"Liz! Didn't expect to run into you out here. And–Max, wasn't it? Doug Shellow." He extended his hand.

Max remembered him vaguely. "The guy from the dating show, right?"

"Just my cover, old man. I'm actually an NMU student. Archaeology."

"What brings you out here?"

"Archaeology. Visiting some old ruins. What about you?"

Max had to think up a reasonable cover story. "Taking a hike."

Doug turned back to Liz. "What happened?"

"I fell," she said. "My ankle–"

"I know a place I can take you." Without asking her permission (let alone Max's), he lifted her up and headed back toward the hill he had just come down. His breathing grew a little heavy, but he did not complain.

"Hey, we were going a different–" Max began, and then left off: not the right time, he saw. He followed in Doug's steps, now feeling useless as well as remorseful. "I could help you," he offered, but Doug seemed to be ignoring him–as Liz certainly was. Behind them still trailed their stalker, who had at his disposal a knowledge of the particulars, every jog and jag, of all the paths for miles around, stored in a mind that had spent forty years learning them.

From the top of the hill they saw the highway; Liz had not realized it was so close (in choosing his course, Max had sidestepped it deliberately). On the roadside a little way down sat a white adobe-style building, and Doug made for it at a fast walk; his arms were tiring of their burden, but he preferred that Max did not find out, as he would if he were asked to take over–and it seemed Liz would not want to be handed off to him, anyway.

A battery of wooden signs, taking up most of the store frontage, promised the usual snacks and souvenirs, and also a UFO museum, which was claimed to contain the genuine remains of the Roswell saucer. Max had little faith in the claim but had a desire to investigate it nonetheless. He followed Doug inside. At once his eye lit on a door at the far end with a "Museum" sign above. Surrounding him and the others were racks and stands sparsely stocked with tourist-geared trinkets, including some of Amy's.

"Anybody home?" shouted Doug. "We could use some help out here!"

"Aw, pipe down!" a voice shouted back from somewhere at the rear. "I'm comin', ain't I?" Moments later a grizzled figure in fatigues pushed around the shower curtain hanging in the doorway behind the front counter. They had no way of recognizing the man as the one who had been shadowing them. A minute after their arrival, he had scuttled in at a side door.

"This woman's been injured," Doug informed him.

"I can see that myself. Bring her in the back." He slid aside the curtain and waved them through.

Max was near enough Doug to whisper, "Is he one of the old ruins you're visiting?" Whatever Doug's private opinion of Max might have been, he could not help smiling at this.

The store itself was not large; the back room was smaller. Swift gestured toward a cot in the corner. Doug sat Liz on it and up-ended the pillow against the wall so that she could lean back on it. As their eyes met she remembered why she had found him so attractive on the one date they had had. "It'll be okay," he said soothingly.

"I'm sure it will now," she replied, "thanks to _you._" She flashed a glance of disrespect at Max to point up the contrast. If her eye had lingered on him a little longer, she might have seen that the remorse she was wishing on him was already well in place.

Swift pulled a stool up beside her. "Let's have a look at you now." He removed the shoe and the sock from the injured foot and raised the jeans leg a couple of inches. "Not meanin' to be fresh," he apologized. He inspected her turned ankle. "Just a sprain. Don't worry, I know how to treat 'er. Learned first aid in the Air Corps." He stood to attention. "Sergeant Yancy Swift, retired."

Doug stuck out his hand. "Doug Shellow. This is Liz Parker. And Max–somebody."

"Evans," Max said, in some annoyance.

Swift went to a shelf and lifted down a first aid kit, from which he took out a cloth bandage and a roll of tape. He returned to Liz and set to wrapping her ankle with them. "When were you in the Corps?" Doug asked, out of politeness.

"Tour of duty '40 to '48."

"Then you must have been around when–"

"When it all went down? Hell, boy, I wasn't just around, I was _there._ Seen it for myself." Max felt a surge of interest in what he might have to tell. "Since my discharge I been collectin' the proof. Got stuff in my museum _you_ never saw, I bet."

"Come on," Doug chaffed him, "that's just tourist fodder. You don't honestly believe in little green men from Mars?"

"They ain't little. And they ain't green. And they prob'ly ain't from Mars. But hell, yes, I believe in 'em. Met one of 'em myself couple days ago."

"Oh, yes? What'd he look like?" Doug glanced in amusement at Max and was surprised to find him listening intently.

"Like you and me," said Swift. "They can do that, you know. Didn't get a long look at this 'un, though, 'cause he knocked me out too fast. And when I come to, I had a silver handprint on me–here." He pointed to the right side of his neck. Doug bent to look. "Nothin' there now."

"Is that all he did?" Max asked.

"Sure, that was all." Swift glanced slyly at him. "Why, what else'd you expect?"

_Take your body and keep it for a while_ was the answer Max was thinking, but could not say aloud. If Klima had done so, he would probably be telling the story now, just as Swift (if he _was_ Swift) was doing. But why? Liz would have asked, if she had known to. Why would he risk exposing himself that way? Max knew the answer. Klima would do it partly to boast, partly to play with his human listeners–and if he suspected who Max was, partly to test him. It was exactly what he would do. Max had no idea how one would recognize a shape shifter on sight and he continued to stare at the sergeant, searching for signs. "Maybe you know already," he suggested.

The sergeant stared back at him with the same knowing look. "Maybe I do," he said. He looked toward Liz, turning the right side of his neck to Max–and revealing the silver handprint, to Max's eyes at least; it was outside Liz's line of sight, and Doug was looking the other way. It had not been there earlier, and in a second or two it disappeared again. It was the sign Max had been looking for. It appeared Klima was playing with him too.

He watched for another sign–some word or glance from the old man–to confirm this. But all he did, that Max could see, was to wrap off Liz's ankle. "There you go," he said. "Stay off it all you can." Max kept watching, but Swift either did not notice or pretended not to. After returning the tape and the bandage to their places in the kit, he opened an aspirin bottle, shook out two pills, fetched a cup of water from a cooler by the doorway, and brought them to Liz. "Here, these'll help a tad."

"May I have some of that?" asked Doug.

At first Swift thought he was referring to the aspirin, but then saw Doug had taken out a pill case of his own. "My allergy's acting up again," he explained to Liz. "All this dust." And indeed the room was layered with it.

Max was struck by the oddity of what he had heard; it distracted him briefly from the manifestation he had just witnessed. "You're allergic to dust," he asked Doug, "and you're going into archaeology?"

"That's right, why?"

Max shook his head as if to say (as he was thinking), _Strange beings, these scientists._ But then he had known that already from his experience with Liz.

Doug knelt beside her cot. "Feeling hungry?" he asked. She shrugged. "Suppose I buy you lunch?" He added, with a smile, and in a lower voice, "Or what passes for lunch here."

"Such a gentleman to offer!" she said, speaking in Max's direction. "Yes, thank you _so_ much." She shifted her position, and groaned a little.

"Don't try to move." Doug turned to Swift. "You sell food here, right?"

"You bet I do. Big selection. And the microwave'll heat it right up for you." He winked. "We got that from _them_, you know. Come on, I'll show you." He exited through the curtain.

Doug smiled at Max. "I think the sarge has been feeding on locusts and honey a little too long."

But Max was not smiling. "Don't let him fool you. He may be more dangerous than you think."

"You're seeing things, old man," said Doug. Max glanced sharply at him, and then realized it had only been a figure of speech. "Must be the high desert air."

"Maybe so," Max replied vaguely. But he had seen the handprint. It had been shown to him alone: only Klima could have done that. Unless... Max had been called to the desert, and was being prepared (he felt), to receive knowledge. What it was, what form it would take, and how it would be imparted were alike a mystery to him; who knew but what his vision of the handprint might be a part of the process? Klima might have had nothing to do with it; Swift might in fact be the innocuous recluse he appeared. But somehow Max did not believe it. He decided he would withhold final judgment, and in the meantime watch his step.

"Trust me," Doug was saying to him, "the biggest danger here is the food. I strongly recommend inspecting it before biting in." His suspicions notwithstanding, he shortly returned to Liz carrying two sandwiches on plastic plates. He rested one of them on her cot and seated himself on the stool alongside. "Brought you the vegetarian. I thought it'd be the safest. I'm risking the chicken salad myself. Funny, I once knew a girl who was addicted to chicken salad sandwiches. The vending machine on campus carries them. But it only carries one a day. If somebody got in and grabbed it ahead of her–well, you wouldn't want to be her lab partner that afternoon, believe you me."

Liz thought his story one of the least compelling she had ever heard. However, when Max re-entered, her interest seemed to revive. "Dougie, how _fascinating_!" was what she said. But she did not care to hear any more. "So, you're doing research out here?"

"What? Oh, yes," Doug said, finding himself having to switch gears unexpectedly. "Digging for native American artifacts. At it three weeks. Once I set myself a goal I can't let go until I've found what I'm after. As a fellow scientist you must know the feeling. Your subject is–don't tell me now–"

She did, anyway. "Molecular biology."

"Right, right! The paramesia."

"Oh, Dougie! Nothing is more satisfying than having a heart-to-heart talk with someone who _understands._" She was not interlacing her fingers below her chin, but that was practically the only limit to her coquetry. The discouragement of Max–of his human side, anyway–was effectively complete. With bowed head, he slipped out the side door. At the moment there was no apparent danger from Klima (assuming he even was Klima), and Max needed some distance from the others. Liz had shown _him_, all right; she had achieved the goal she had set herself. But she felt disappointed nevertheless.

"What projects are you working on now?" Doug asked.

"None," she said curtly, and then, trying to hide her indifference–mainly out of courtesy, now–she added, "That is, nothing much."

"I don't know about you," Doug said in a confidential tone, "but I'd rather be sifting through a heap of dirt than wasting my time at some school prom."

"Yeah," Liz agreed glumly, "why dance when you could be sifting?"

"Exactly."

Liz gazed toward the side door with a sigh. "Guess I'm not as hungry as I thought I was. Mind if I take a nap now?"

"Of course." Doug removed the plate to the stool he had just vacated. "In case you decide you want it later." Liz made an affirmative noise, tried to turn over, then remembered she could not, and satisfied herself with turning her head and shutting her eyes.

Max was not thinking about Liz any more. With greater ease than he had expected, he had dispatched his feelings about her to a remote part of his consciousness, where they could neither hurt nor hinder him. Now he was standing a little away from the store, surveying the horizon. Something in him drew his eyes to the sun. Seeing it, he knew. _It's almost time_, he thought. Time for exactly what, he did not know, or exactly where it would befall, but he knew beyond a doubt that the moment was nearly come.

He also knew he should have been alone. Liz had distracted him already; Shellow might be in his way; Swift, if he was Klima (or even if he was not), might try to stop him, and in doing so might pose a threat to Liz. In that case Max would do his best for her, but it was more important that he do what he had been called to do, and none of them, not even Liz, must keep him from it. He would deal with them in whatever fashion was dictated by events and his own knowledge–including, perhaps, the knowledge he had without knowing how.

Doug had returned to the store, where Swift was leaning lazily on the counter. "She's sleeping now," said Doug.

"Best thing for her. Where's the other one got off to?" Doug nodded toward the windows. Swift watched Max for a little. "Don't let that 'un fool you. Might be more dangerous than he looks."

"Funny, he said the same thing about you."

"_Eyewash._" Swift punctuated the comment by spitting into the waste can. "Did I hear you say you was doin' some diggin' round here?"

"That's right. Know any likely spots?"

"I might." Doug waited; Swift considered. "Yep, I just might. Tell me, while you was out diggin', you ever happen to run across somethin' you wasn't lookin' for? Somethin' you didn't know what to make of? Somethin' funny-like? And you just let it lay there? You ever run across anythin' like that?" His eyes glinted.

Doug sidestepped the question. "I'm interested in everything that's been deposited here over the years. It's all relevant."

Swift mulled over his reply. "Tell you a story. You don't have to believe it if you don't want to, but it's the God's honest truth. I was with them that found the saucer out at Pohlman's." He proceeded to give his account in some detail, most of which was already known to the hearer:

On the night of July 7, 1947, Swift was one of a party ordered to investigate reports of a UFO landing in a field on the Pohlman ranch, off highway 42. It was he himself who questioned the rancher. "Said he heard a noise like a big drill," Swift recounted, "only one hell of a lot louder. Whole ground shook, he said."

The Air Corps men combed through the wreckage and found only a few scraps of metal, along with smaller debris scattered over a quarter mile. "I tried to tell 'em that was just the hull. Weren't enough to account for the whole ship. Way I figured, the insides musta been jettisoned, same as a rocket jettisons the first stage as it goes up. 'cept this went _down_, at an angle like so"–he slanted his hand at forty-five degrees–"and kept goin' till it come to a stop hundred or two hundred miles from where we was."

Doug appeared to be considering the possibility. "It would have left traces in the earth, wouldn't it?"

"Coulda changed it to somethin' that don't show traces. Like water, maybe."

Doug looked more interested than he had before. "Where do you think it went?"

"That's the big question, ain't it? Thought _you_ might have an idea. I been lookin' for forty years. Got old lookin'. I'll show you what I've dug up so far. Maybe you can make somethin' of it."

Just then Max walked in. Doug waved him over to them. "Max, guess what? The sergeant has offered to show off his collection. You should see it too." Swift was visibly unhappy about this, having intended for his own reasons, whatever those might have been, to confer with Doug in private.

"Wise idea," Max whispered to Doug, as Swift went ahead of them to unbolt the museum door.

"Why is it a wise idea?" Doug whispered back.

"In case he's–an impostor. You're safer with me along."

"Careful, old man," Doug advised, only half-jokingly. "Or I might start thinking you're as dotty as he is."

The inner room was on the same scale as the others but looked even tinier. Narrow aisles divided the rows of display cases. _Just like the science fair_, Max thought. The walls were hung with photos and newspaper pages he was well acquainted with himself, from the collection he dusted twice a week. The glass cases housed a melange of disparate items: rocks with colorful strata, patches off Air Corps uniforms, rows of scrap metal. The centerpiece of the collection was a scale model combining the shapes of the scrap and those of the presumed missing sections into a theoretical whole. "This is how I figure that puppy musta looked to start with," said Swift, "give or take a 3 margin of error." The result resembled a gourd with its bottom half smashed flat.

"Spitting image," Max said, "no doubt about it." Doug suppressed a smile, and the two of them proceeded into the next aisle ahead of the sergeant. "You're right about him," Max whispered. "He's a crackpot."

Privately, he was still not certain. Swift's air of harmless lunacy might be just the impression Klima was trying to create. It did not jibe with his other known personae (excluding perhaps Maria's dog); he seemed too clever, as well as too proud, to waste time playing the fool. But they really knew very little about him–and Max _had_ seen the handprint.

He continued down the aisle after Doug as they summarily reviewed each exhibit in turn. "What a waste of time," said Doug. "Glad he didn't charge–" On reaching the last case he stopped short, and his manner changed. "Max, come have a look at this."

The fragment within was unprepossessing, small and dun-colored, partly on account of its dirt coating, which had been left intact. Then Max's heart gave a leap: under the dirt showed a row of hieroglyphics like those on the cave map. He did not know whether Doug was familiar with it or them, but his excitement certainly seemed to equal Max's own. "Sergeant?" he called. "Where did you find this?"

Swift joined them in front of the case. "Out where some of you scientist boys was diggin' a few years ago. Doubt if this one's the real McCoy, though. Don't fit with the rest."

"Can you take us there?" Doug asked eagerly.

Swift was obviously reluctant. "Don't like to leave the place untended. 'specially with the girl here."

"You could close up for a half hour. Leave her to her nap. It wouldn't take any longer than that, would it?"

"That depends on what you find." He crooked a finger at Doug and led him a few feet away. "Do we have to take _him_?" he whispered.

Doug looked as if he were seriously considering the question. "If we leave him behind, he's apt to abduct the human female. Then it'd be our fault."

Swift scratched his stubbly chin. "Hadn't thought of that. You're right. He'd best come too."

Leaving the human female to her nap as Doug had suggested, the three trekked out to the dig site. But it offered little to view, either from the original period of use or from the date of excavation; if there were any artifacts remaining, they still lay buried there. "Yes, I know this place," said Doug. "Quemaduras. And the pit." He pointed toward the gaping hole in the middle. It had shelves jutting out at different depths, the lowest of them thirty feet below ground level. The project had evidently been discontinued before completion and left as it was. "The circle of truth," Doug Said, "was situated in the center, about nine feet down."

"Circle of truth?" Swift had not heard the phrase before.

"This was a holy place of the Mesaliko. A kind of shrine where they opened themselves to receive knowledge from the spirits of their ancestors–or their own imaginations, if you prefer. Nothing extraterrestrial about it." He sounded disappointed again.

But Max was not. Anticipation was swelling in him, and had been ever since their arrival. Doug was right: no alien artifacts were to be found there, but it did not matter; this was the place to which Max had been meant to come. Everything that had happened–the quarrel with Liz, her sprained ankle, Shellow's rescue, the sergeant's knowledge of this place–had conspired to bring him, in spite of himself, to where he had to be. Here he would receive the revelation that was at hand; this he knew, but without knowing how. Aware, yet unaware, he started toward the pit.

The Lodestone began to beep, but faintly. This recalled him, and he stepped back. The sound ceased. Though the site was not one of those on the map, it evidently contained a measure of the same energy, the Vallosan energy. If Max concentrated for a moment, he could feel its pull, but it was as weak as the signal the Stone had emitted. Perhaps there were many small repositories like this, scattered all over the Earth; they might be almost anywhere, and might be responsible for powering all kinds of minor phenomena without anyone's ever guessing.

"Did you hear a noise?" Doug asked him.

Max feigned innocence. "Noise?"

"Step forward again," The instruction proceeded from what sounded like a true scientist's curiosity. Max could not do it, could not disclose the presence of the Stone to the others--but what excuse could he make?

At that moment, by luck or some other agent, a welter of dust flew up around them. "Sandstorm!" Doug shouted. "We have to leave!" Suddenly he was seized with a fit of coughing and sneezing, doubtless produced by the allergy he had spoken of. He started off with Swift.

Max lingered where he was. "I'm staying!" he called back.

"Not–safe!" Doug managed to bark out, between coughs.

"I'll risk it."

Doug stared curiously at him, as if he was almost ready to stay himself, and for the moment his coughing was stilled, as if Max's intention had driven it from his mind. A moment later it kicked up again, and his companion drew him on. "Let him git blowed away, if he's that set on it," said the sergeant. "All this goo's prob'ly his doin' anyhow." After they had gone several yards, they looked back to see Max standing in the eye of the whirlwind, untouched, with a circle of calm all around him. "What'd I tell you?" said Swift.

Once the storm was behind them and Doug was able to resort to his pill case without its contents being blown away, he did so; shortly afterward his attack appeared to subside. And now the sky had begun to dim. "Is it my imagination," he aske, "or is it getting darker?"

"The eclipse!" Swift exclaimed. Until then the demands of his unexpected guests had put it from his mind. "Almanac said one was due."

For miles around–downtown, at the high school, at the reservation–people stood like store window mannequins as the untimely night fell. Liz–the only person of Max's acquaintance who could have told him precisely when it would happen–was almost the only one sleeping through it.

The sandstorm had passed. Max walked to the pit and, standing at its edge, turned to the black sun. What was the hour of darkness for others was for him the hour of seeing. He removed his jacket, shirt, and shoes. Barefooted and bare-chested, he climbed down into the excavation, to the heart of it, directly below the space where the holy circle had stood. There he sat cross-legged. And shut his eyes. And saw–

The same thing he had seen with his eyes open: darkness. But a lesser darkness, with the blue night sky spread out above him and the desert around him. A girl child was standing with him–naked, as he was: the first scene in the drama of his life on Earth. It was succeeded by a later one, and that one by a later; scene upon scene, each supplanting the last more quickly than the one before; dozens, scores, hundreds of them, the totality of his experience on this planet racing past him, and catapulting him finally into today. And over it all hung the dark sun, in which he saw Feddin's face–that is, the face he knew.

Then another face eclipsed it: Coach Clay's. The mouth opened and the tongue extended, with a pill resting on it. For some reason this troubled Max; it reminded him of someone else he had seen taking pills. But who? The face changed–to Doug Shellow's. _That_ was who it had been: Klima had taken _his_ shape; and he was with Liz now. But Max could not stop on her account, or on any account; the hour of seeing had arrived.

Liz, still lying in the back room, opened her eyes. For a few seconds she was not sure they were really open: the room had been dark before, but it was darker now. "Why is everything so–" Then Liz-the-scientist remembered. "The eclipse! And I'm missing it!" She sat up. "Doug? Max?" she called. She received no answer. "They must all be out watching it." She got to her feet: her ankle still pained her, but less than before. She limped to the dividing curtain and peered out.

The shop was dark as well as empty, except for a light from the museum. Its door was standing half open. Liz hobbled down to it and pushed it open the rest of the way. The light– "Oh, my God!" she cried. The light emanated from the floor; it was the luminescence of a silver handprint, which gave an eerie glow to the face it was tattooed on: Sergeant Swift's face. He was lying dead. And Doug was gone. Liz knew now who he was. But _where_ was he? Outside, and alone with Max! Fear–for Max–coursed through her.

Max himself was remote from present cares. His vision–the light at the heart of the darkness–had begun. He saw himself, and all his selves–the Vallosans; saw them in all their dimensions, ranging over time and space. In their true form, they looked human-like but not human: greyer and more leathery. And their home world looked Earth-like but not like Earth; its sunlight was darker, its landscapes narrower. He remembered it from a life, or lives, past–but someone else's, not his. Its denizens, however, he knew; he knew them in himself. If his knowledge of them had needed and sought and found words, they might have been these:

_Isolated. Alone. That's what I am–what we all are. We Vallosans. Alone all our lives. We have communities but no community. We have feelings, but they're never shared; we believe they remain purer in isolation. There are myths of love and friendship, but they're like the Earth myths of men flying: only children and dreamers believe them._

_The one thing we have–almost the only thing–is war, always and forever. It's our occupation, our avocation–our life. Not war between races or countries, because there is only one race and only one country, and not for a flag or a creed, because we don't have those. It's for ourselves: for individual gain and glory. In that sense we're all mercenaries. Life for us is a battle; we've made it so. War doesn't scare us–why should it? If we're wounded we heal ourselves; if we feel pain we anesthetize ourselves; if we die it's over. We fight for the necessities–space to live, bread to eat–but no more. We believe it's wrong even to want more._

_Yet we're not barbarians. We have art and literature–but not as things apart: everybody paints, everybody writes. Why did I never write a poem for Liz, I wonder? Was it my human side that held me back? We create–but we don't save what we create. We attach no importance to beauty for its own sake, only for the power it holds._

_We have no religion–that is, most of us. But we wonder_ _about things. When we're not fighting, we're experimenting: figuring out how things work and how to make them work better. That's a different kind of war, I guess. There are a few holy ones–mystics and their disciples–who reject the Vallosan way and live on their own, in the desolate places. They're left to themselves, and no one mourns them when they die. In fact, no one mourns any death, or celebrates any birth. Families are strictly biological. Children are assigned by lot. And raised to be– Isolated. Alone._

So he ended where he had begun. And in fact his perceptions had not been consecutive but concurrent, each one coexistent with all the others. "Who _are_ you, Evans?" Wiley had asked him, and he had asked himself; now he knew.

"This is the other half of me," he said aloud. "Why I can't give myself to Liz the way she gives herself to me. Half of me wants it, the other can't comprehend it. And I have both halves in me. That will never change. I'll always be divided. Never whole."

"_Never_," a voice echoed.

Max opened his eyes. A dark figure was standing above him in the blackness, at the brink of the pit. "Klima!" said Max. "It was you who communicated that image to me at Swift's place. So I'd suspect him instead of you."

"One of many stratagems I've learned in my time here. To confound the humans."

"You've done more than that to them. You murdered Hubble's wife, Maria's father–"

"It wasn't murder. It was war. That's why we're here. Join the fight. Become who were you created to be."

"Then I'd become you. One of those is too many."

"In that case, give me the Lodestone."

"I need it. To take me where I'm going."

Shellow–that is, Klima–smiled. "It will do more than that." He searched mentally for it, on and near Max, and realized at once it must be elsewhere. Max's mind flashed immediately to where it was, and he could not hide the thought fast enough: Klima turned to the pile of clothes on the ground nearby. A beeping arose from the jacket. As he moved toward it the dirt under his feet changed to ice. He fell and began sliding toward the edge of the pit. Laughing at having been caught by such a basic trick, he spun around and propelled himself back toward the jacket. He reached out for it.

–but another hand grabbed it ahead of his: Liz was there. She had hurried to Max's aid–as fast as her ankle would allow her to–no matter whether he wanted it or not, no matter whether he deserved it or not. Klima turned on her. But before he could act a tower of earth rose between them and toppled over onto him. He dissolved it to a thick fog. Out of the fog sprang Max, helped along by the ground, which changed to bouncy rubber wherever he stepped. When he reached Liz's side he took up his jacket and unsheathed the Lodestone. The spiral bathed them both in its blue light and Max felt its power flowing into him as he faced Klima. "Hurt her," he said, "and I'll kill you where you stand." Hearing this, Liz was not as mad at him as she had been before.

Klima seemed to be debating whether to try him or not. "Coward," he said. "Human. You're not even _part_ Vallosan." But this was his parting shot. He turned and fled, into a darkness more profound than the eclipse could account for.

Then it ended and day returned and it was almost as if the night had never been and Max and Liz were by themselves once more. He knelt beside her. "Will you let me heal you now?" he asked. She extended her ankle to him. He passed his hand over it. She flexed it and felt no pain. Without further word, he rose and started away. She jumped up and ran after him, without difficulty now. "Go home, Liz," he said; this time he was not angry.

"But I saved your life." Her voice was shaking, but she pressed on. "We saved each other. We're–comrades in arms."

Max smiled at the double meaning. "All right. You've earned your place on the journey. And we have little enough time left to us, anyway." So together they headed out across the plain.

That night in Roswell, two hours after having gone to bed, Diane rose in her sleep and walked through the house to the laundry room, where Isabel was waiting. "Sit," she commanded in a whisper, and Diane lowered herself into one of the pair of folding chairs Isabel had set up there. She sat with her back straight and her eyes still shut. Then her daughter spoke to her–not to her waking mind but to the part Isabel could enter, though Diane herself could not.

"I have to go somewhere," Isabel said. "But before I go I wanted us to take a dreamwalk together. So I could tell you–all that we should have told you before. You won't remember most of it–sorry, that's how things have to be for now–but I wanted to tell you, at least once–though there's not that much to tell. We don't know much, you see. Max has gone to find out more, and he's summoned me and Michael to find it out with him. We have to be there too, otherwise Max wouldn't have summoned us. I don't know how long it'll take or when we'll be back. But you don't have to worry about us. Remember that much. And maybe you can get Dad not to worry too. Tell him we've gone camping with Michael."

Isabel gazed at her mother with affection. "You've been wondering who I am–what I am. So have I, and so has Max. All we know right now is, we came here from a place a long way off, where they can do things that people here can't. Change things, and change ourselves–well, some of us can. See into other people, and see into their dreams. I know it's scary to think there are people who can do those things. But believe me, it's a lot scarier if you're the one who can do them. The thing you have to keep remembering"–she meant herself as much as her mother–"is that it's natural. As natural as it is for a bird to fly or a fish to swim." She smiled at the song that began playing, unbidden, inside her mother's head. "That's right. 'Fish gotta swim, birds gotta fly.' See it as just another mystery of the universe–as wonderful and unexplainable as a sunset over Bitter Lake or snow on the peaks of the Guadalupe Mountains. Think of it like that and you won't be scared. Remember that too. And remember–don't ever forget–I love you."

This was inadequate to her feelings. But words always were. Maybe when she knew more she would be able to say more or say it better. "Okay," she concluded, "you can go back to bed now." Diane rose and walked off as if hypnotized. Returning to the hall, she did not see her husband, who, having woken to find her missing, had come looking for her. As she passed him, he watched her curiously. He had never known her to sleepwalk before.

Glancing in the direction she had come from, he saw Isabel in the laundry room, folding the chairs back; she did not see him. A look of suspicion crept over Philip's face–but he was not sure just what to suspect. He was still revolving it in his mind when he returned to bed. It was lucky for Isabel he did so because if he had continued watching he would surely have stopped her leaving. She went out by the back door and crossed to the park, where Michael was waiting. She could not very well take the Jeep, and he did not have a car. So the two of them left on foot, following Max's summons to the desert.

Out there, before night had fallen–and it would be true night this time–Max had sighted their birthplace (or what was for them the equivalent) rising from a line of rocky hills, the place from which they had wandered as children ten years before: the rocks pictured on the map. "That's where I'm going," he told Liz.

"Then this will be our last night together," she said. Max nodded. "Can we make it–something special?" Her look was openly inviting. Max extended a hand toward the earth. It rose up on three sides to encurtain and enroof them, and then it became a canopied tent made of red velvet. From the same earth Max fashioned two golden goblets and a fountain of Bordeaux, with which he filled the goblets until they overflowed. He gave one to Liz. Holding it in both her hands, she sipped long and deep from it. Her head, unaccustomed to wine, began dancing. "This is so, so great," she said. Then she wagged a finger at him. "But, y'know, it's not 'xactly what I had in mind."

Max smiled. "I know. But it's all I can give."

After two gobletfuls Liz was feeling not only airy but sleepy; she slid over to where Max was sitting and leaned her head on his shoulder. He placed a comforting arm around her, and together they sat staring out the front of the tent, toward his destination. Neither of them spoke for a while.

At last Liz said, "You're not with me, are you? I mean, really, really with me. Are you?"

"No," Max admitted, "but you're with me. For tonight at least." Liz held that thought. "I've sent for the others," Max added, bursting her bubble a little. "The gate wasn't meant for me alone. The three of us must pass through it together."

"How do you know that?"

Max smiled again. "Intuition."

Another silence followed. "Max, what'll happen to us? After tonight?"

"I told you, it will all be different."

"But we still might–we might–might–" Her voice trailed off with her thought.

He hushed her. "No sense trying to make out objects when it's pitch black. You humans spend too much time doing that."

"Of course. What else is there to do?"

"What I'm doing. Wait."

"Then I'll wait with you. Wait long as you want. You bet bet bet I will." She snuggled up against him and shut her eyes.

"There's that about humans," said Max. "They're loyal."

"And you're not?"

He pointed. "See that stone?"

"What about it?"

"It will be there tomorrow, and next year, and a century from now, unless someone moves it. But you can't say it's loyal. It's just–fixed."

For some reason then Liz began to cry. She tried to stop herself but could not. Max continued staring out toward the hills, pretending not to hear her, until the crying had stopped, to be replaced by an audible steady breathing. Then he began to recite, in a voice low enough not to wake her:

"Elizabeth Valerie Parker

child of Earth

the day I found you

I also found myself

or thought I had.

Before that day

I never understood

what happiness was

in life on this Earth.

Then I understood

or thought I had

because we were happy

and I thought it was

the same kind of happiness

for you as for me.

But yours is face to face

and mine is behind a veil

as if I could not absorb it

could not endure it

unless it was filtered

filtered of impurities

the matter of this Earth.

So it seems in the end

I am not like you.

I thought I was

felt I was

or felt I could be.

But the harder I tried

to be like you

to be of this Earth

to live on this Earth

the more my other side

rose up against it

my alienness

that is, me.

So I came here to find

that side of me

that alien side.

Maybe there never was

another side.

Maybe all the rest

was only you.

Soon I will know

soon I will go

and gaze into the mirror

waiting for me here

mirror of that self

mirror of Vallosa.

Then I will become

the thing I see

with no more pretense

no more Max Evans.

Dream of him softly

child of Earth

after he is gone

into that mirror.

Dream of who he was

or was in you

once upon a time."

And so he had written the poem he had never gotten around to before. But, being of Vallosan extraction, he did not trouble to commit it to paper or to memory, and as soon as it was spoken it was gone.

In the morning Liz woke to find herself alone. The canopy had disappeared, and so had he. "Max!" she called. The only answer she got was her own echo. She began running toward the hills, and when she could run no longer she walked. Eventually she saw him, but as a tiny figure far ahead. She called again, but she knew there was no way he could have heard her. At the foot of the hills she saw two other figures waiting, and knew who they must be. Soon the three of them joined hands and climbed up out of sight.

An hour later, against all of her expectations, she saw Max once more. Climbing the same slope the three had taken, she attained to a view of a higher slope above and a shallow valley below, where there stood exposed the ship's core, or much of it. The core was oval in shape, with a hull of its own, separate from the one that had been shed on landing, and this one was the same color as the surrounding dirt–if it was not the dirt itself Liz was looking at. Max and the others were standing opposite it. Liz did not know that until three quarters of an hour before it had been completely buried and they had spent that time vacuuming off (without benefit of a vacuum cleaner) the earth that had covered it .

She gazed at it in awe. She was actually seeing the craft that had brought them to Earth. Most people believed it had never existed, yet here it was. From where she was, she could see no way down to it. Yet the others had managed to get to it somehow.

And now Max pointed the Lodestone at it. A hatch appeared in its face and slid up with a faint humming sound. The three entered, Max last of all. "Max!" Liz called. He looked back at her–but with the same alien eyes as before: a stranger's eyes. Then the hatch slid down, shutting him off from her, perhaps forever.

Inside, the three looked around them. The core was bigger than it had appeared from without. Its inner walls were embellished with the symbols from the cave, writ large; these were not painted or inscribed, but seemed like part of the walls themselves. The visitors made a brief reconnaissance and discovered that the large central chamber they were in opened in one direction onto another, smaller chamber which contained two sets of pod-like berths, four to a set, and connected with tubes. This configuration was the same shape as the sixth symbol, the forgotten symbol, on the map: the one that was placed outside the V but near the picture of the rocks; it was a picture of the pods. Into the wall behind them were set eight transparent cylinders, with additional tubes running between them and the pods. And that was all the apparatus they saw. "There are no controls," said Michael. "How'd they work this thing?"

"The same way we opened the hatch," said Max. "By force of will. Or does that sound too crazy?"

Isabel gave him "that look." "Max, we're beings from another planet standing inside the ship that brought us. The ordinary rules about what's crazy don't apply."

Outside, Liz traced the rim of the valley, searching for the path down. At last she found it. A few minutes later she was standing where the others had stood, facing the core. She tried to get in–pounded at the hatch, kicked it, looked for something to pry it open with–but soon saw that her efforts were useless. She slumped down and began to cry; Max had said it was no place for her, and he had been right. She continued crying until she had cried herself dry, and then continued sitting, having no further reason to stay but no wish to go.

Presently she felt the ground beneath her tremble, and she heard the growl of engines. She climbed back up to the rim and looked over. On the plain below, a contingent of Army Jeeps was moving in, and with them a pair of earth movers. The Jeeps might have been the same ones she had seen at the Pohlman ranch, because Seaver was there too; she climbed out and strode among the soldiers, pointing here and there, and shouting orders. She pointed to the hill Liz was standing on, but for some unrelated purpose; she was not really looking at it and had not seen Liz, but Liz ducked down anyway. It took a minute for the significance of the earth movers to hit her. When it did, her fear–for Max again, not for herself–got the better of her common sense, and she started down the hill at a rush.

The three inside had no inkling of what was going on outside; the core was soundproof. Having finished their reconnaissance, they looked at one another uncertainly. "So, we're here to find out stuff," said Michael. "How?"

"Simple," said Isabel. "By opening ourselves to it."

The other two knew she was right. "Well?" said Max. "Are we ready?"

Isabel looked at Michael; after a moment he nodded. "We are now," she said. They all took a deep breath and joined hands. Isabel shut her eyes, and the others followed her example.

For several seconds nothing happened. Then a wild jumble of images, noises, and other sensations broke loose inside their heads; it was like playing a thousand VR games at once. They opened their eyes, but it made no difference: their true surroundings had vanished, lost in the chaos. They had to struggle to keep it from sweeping them away with it, into madness. "It's too much!" Michael shouted.

Isabel resisted best: she was used to psychic spaces that made no sense. "Focus!" she cried. "Pick out one thing and use it as a lens."

"The Lodestone!" Max felt blindly for it and held it out in front of them. "We can focus on this." They did so, with great effort. And they saw it–dimly at first, then clearly: saw it solid and immobile, a fixed center in the whirling disorder. They channeled their perceptions through it, and little by little the disorder sorted itself out. Presently they became able to understand some things, first one and then another. And they did it in communion: the understanding of one was the understanding of all. "I see," said Michael, in a tone of awe. "I mean, I'm starting to now."

The soldiers outside did not notice Liz until she reached the bottom. The nearest one, whose dog tag identified him as R. Aguilar, Corporal, moved to apprehend her–without need, since she was already approaching him. "What are you doing here?" Liz demanded.

"That would be _my_ question." He nodded toward a "No Trespassing" sign like the one Liz had seen at the ranch.

She thought fast. "Rock collecting. For a geology project."

"Where are your rocks?"

Maybe she had not thought fast enough. "I didn't find any. Of the right varieties."

"Where's your car?"

"I don't drive."

"You hiked from Roswell?"

"I'm a wizard hiker."

Seaver stepped up to them. "What's this girl doing here?"

"That would be _his_ question," Liz rejoined, rather tartly.

"Says she walked from Roswell," said Aguilar.

"Which, oddly enough, is true," Liz noted.

"Take her to the motor area," Seaver ordered. As the corporal started to lead her off, Seaver made a chopping gesture in the direction of the earth movers, and they roared to life.

"No! cried Liz. "You can't do that!" She started back, but Aguilar grabbed her by the shoulder and held her fast.

Her protest had stirred Seaver's interest. "Why not?" she said. "Are there others still up there?"

"No," said Liz; she could hardly have answered otherwise. She searched for another justification. "It'll destroy the ecosystem."

"A system that's of no use to humans _should_ be destroyed." Liz was prepared to debate the point but never got the chance. "Get her out of here," Seaver said. Liz watched helplessly as the big machines lumbered into position and gouged out their first load of dirt.

The onslaught had an immediate and unexpected result. The entire hill began to vibrate, the vibration spread, and earth came pouring down in an avalanche, raising a dense fog of dust. The machine operators scrambled down off their perches and out of the way. When the dust cleared, Liz saw that the hill was only half as high as it had been, and flat at the top, though the whip-like rocks above it remained untouched. The core could not be seen. She would have been happy for that but for one fact, which she realized with a surge of alarm: the core was now completely buried, and those inside were buried with it.

They were still unaware of what was passing outside; they were absorbed in the vision they were undergoing. Now that they had learned how to read it, they discovered that they themselves had determined its form, through their unspoken questions; it was a compilation of the data required to provide the answers. But it also seemed like life unfolding before them–_their_ life somehow, and yet not theirs.

...Vallosa, as it had been, they saw, and one of its many battlefields–probably a permanent one. But the combatants were fewer than they had been two decades earlier. Constant warfare dwindled a population, even allowing for the power to heal and to resurrect. Too busy fighting, the Vallosans had not been tending their planet as they should have, and so its resources had dwindled too...

On an airfield, a fleet of ships sat waiting–ships to carry the seed of Vallosa to a planet that was not yet dying. One of them was the ship whose core they were standing in now. In the enclosing section, the part that would later be jettisoned, sat a cot of a sort, but no other amenities, and no controls. Feddin entered, in uniform. He shut the hatch, reclined on the cot, and strapped himself in. A holster on the wall beside him held the Lodestone. He laid a hand on it and _willed_ the ship to take off...

In mid-voyage, while he was asleep or in some form of suspended animation, the ship was jolted by some outside force (the envisioners were not told what, because the core itself did not know). Five of the wall cylinders were dislodged, their seals broke, and the contents trickled out. That was what had become of their shipmates...

The ship landed in a field. A fiery projectile shot out of its side into the earth and sped underground, its glow visible on the surface as a circle of blue light gliding across woodland and desert. From the hull that it had abandoned staggered its pilot, injured and shaken, but alive. Far off, under a range of rocky hills, the core came to rest, and there went dark...

Back in Roswell–the Roswell of the present–an olive-drab Jeep pulled up outside the Crashdown, and Liz climbed out. She surveyed the familiar facade, tinted purple in the dusk. Not long since, she had expected never to see it again, and she still felt divorced from the place, as if it were one she had known in her childhood and was now revisiting for the first time.

When she entered, her father dropped what he was doing (which he had had no very clear idea of to start with) and ran to her. She had not given him a thought until then. "Lizzie!" he said. "Are you all right? Where in Pete's sake have you been?" Liz became aware that he and the customers were staring at her. She was herself only half-conscious of her soiled clothes, and could not see how weary and bedraggled she looked.

"I ran away," she said. "With Max." She felt as if her voice were issuing from someone else.

"I knew that kid couldn't be trusted! Glad you came to your senses, though."

"I didn't. He sent me away. Turns out we're–from different worlds." Her father did not know what to make of this. Liz saw past him to the girl working the tables, and realized that her face was familiar too. "Maria?" She was not supposed to be there, was she? Or had that all been settled? Liz could not quite remember now. "Maria's back?"

"The girl I hired quit. So I re-hired your friend." Maria was regarding Liz with what might have been concern or mere curiosity, but upon Liz's volunteering a smile, she quickly turned back to her customers. Liz felt a slight pang of regret, like the echo of a long-ago disappointment. "I want to know exactly where you've been," her father was saying, "and what that boy did to you."

"Dad, he didn't do _anything_–at least, none of the things you're thinking. I would have been back sooner, only I sprained my ankle." Jeff's eyes went to it automatically. "It's fine now," Liz said.

"Quick recovery," Jeff observed.

"Has Mom gone?"

"No, she insisted on sticking around until we knew you were safe."

Now Liz remembered it all. She had slipped back into her old place as if she had never left it. "I messed up your plans again, didn't I?"

"Lizzie–"

"It doesn't matter. Honestly, it doesn't. Right now I just want to get some sleep, okay?"

Jeff had no choice but to acquiesce. "Okay. But tomorrow we talk things out."

"Sure, tomorrow. 'night." She started toward the back.

"'night, pretty pumpkin peachy-pie!" This effusion surprised them both. Liz turned completely around to face him. "Wow," said Jeff, looking sheepish. "Haven't called you that in a long time."

Liz stared at him reproachfully. "You're right, Dad. We really do need to talk."

Back in her room–which was also as if she had never left it–she resisted the temptation to fall onto the Laura Ashley covers and went instead to the window, as if she could see the desert from there, and prayed to the machine that had swallowed him and the others. "When you're done with him, please send him back." She could scarcely finish. "As Max, not a stranger." She clung to that hope, even as she gave herself up to the inducements of Laura Ashley, while far away, under the New Mexico desert, the vision of the ship-borns continued into the night.

...Forty years passed. The core remained buried, and asleep...

Then it woke. A crowd was gathered above to celebrate the night of its coming; their accumulated energy penetrated to it, saturated it, and brought it to humming life. It knew what it needed; it was programmed to know. Its energy called to one of those from above: a fifteen-year-old named Kathleen.

She probably did not know, probably thought she was going off exploring on her own. At the time, she had a curiosity about everything in the universe, much like Liz Parker's now (and later as a teacher she would recognize the kinship). The thing drew her up into the rocks and then down toward itself, eking out a passage in the earth for her to take. Kathleen ventured in, then ventured deeper, and yet deeper. Too late, she realized she had gone too far; the tunnel had closed behind her. The thing drew her inside it, through its open maw. And then...

What came immediately after was missing from the record. The next thing the vision showed was Kathleen lying in a faint under the rocks. When she recovered consciousness, those were the first things she saw. But exactly what she had been subjected to within remained a mystery. Perhaps when the core had blocked her memory of that, it had blocked its own also. Or perhaps it was programmed to keep the technical details to itself. But they knew what had happened, and why, even if they did not know how. Blood, or some other source of genetic material, had been transferred from her to the cylinders, to mingle with the Vallosan material already contained there. The synthesis would create hybrid beings–themselves...

And now they saw their own genesis. The material from the cylinders ran into the pods. Bodies formed there and grew, their physiological processes slowed almost to stasis. And so they lay for twenty-six months...

Then the boy who was not yet named Max had a dream. His consciousness was propelled forth by the same energy that had conveyed him to this unknown world. He dreamed of a girl his age, with long black hair. _She_ had a name, but he did not yet know it. In her bedroom, miles away, she shared the dream with him. The two of them floated together in a cosmos of stars and shooting stars and rainbow clouds of gas. They regarded each other with the fascination of two different species, unlike but not unfriendly.

"My name is Liz," the girl said. "What's yours?" The boy stared at her without understanding. "I live back there, in Roswell." She began to float toward him. He floated an equal distance away. "What's the matter? Can't you get close to anybody?" And then she knew. "You're from up there! Mommy says nobody lives up there. I _knew_ she was wrong." The boy floated away farther. "Come back!" He faded to nothing. "Come back," she said wistfully. "some day. Please?"

The boy sat up in his pod; the force of his dream had woken him. Its mental energy had woken the other two as well. Innocent of this world, or of any, they opened their eyes to life...

Max–present-day Max–broke out of his vision with the same force he had all those years earlier. And again he brought the others out with him. Neither complained; they knew what they had sought to know, and were not then capable of absorbing more. They took long, deep breaths as they recovered from the exertion. "Visions take a lot out of you," Max observed.

One thought stood out in Isabel's mind. "We _are_ human."

"_Half_ human," Max corrected. "Vallosans _made_ human. Destined to be always at odds with ourselves, and everyone else."

"And Topolsky's our..." For some reason Michael found himself unable to finish.

"As far as anyone is," Isabel said carefully

"So _that's_ what it was," said Michael. "We kinda messed up her life, you know?"

"I _didn't_ know," said Max. "How do you?"

"Things she told me. She's still not sure what's real and what isn't." Michael shook his head. "We've messed up a lot of people just being here."

"Now we've seen the omega factor," said Isabel. "Our planet's ending."

"And the alpha," said Max. "Our own beginning."

"And we know more than we saw." It was Michael who put it into those words, but they were all aware of it; the vision had penetrated to more than their senses. "We know what they were thinking and feeling. What they had in mind when they sent us here."

"We _were_ sent to take over," said Max. "Not by waging war, as Klima wants, but by invading the human bloodline, as Grunewald feared. But not to kill humans–to _mutate_ them."

"Turn them into Vallosans," said Michael.

"Exactly. Except it won't work, maybe because we're part human already. Liz's blood is the proof of that."

"Good," said Isabel. "It was a stupid idea anyway."

Michael was walking along the wall, running his eyes over the symbols. "I can read these now. Can you?" He laughed. "Yeah, of course you can." He stopped at the spiral. "But not this one. And it's the most important of all." He tried, but gave up. "No information."

"I think you have to–" But Isabel never got to finish, for just then the light that radiated from within the walls began flickering. "Bet this thing used up all its juice on us," said Michael.

"Sooner or later the ambient energy will regenerate it," said Max. "Until then..." He pointed the Stone at the hatch. "No use."

"Leave it to me," Michael said confidently. He focused on the hatch and melted it through–only to bring the earth that lay on top pouring in.

"Well, I hope you're satisfied," said Isabel. "This is another fine–"

"We'll turn the dirt into hard rock," said Max, thinking more practically, "and bore a tunnel through to the surface."

They turned toward it as one.

A few minutes later they climbed out into a new day, not having realized until now that the old one was gone. Also, the hill had changed shape. "What the hell happened here?" Michael asked.

As if in answer, a pair of heavy-duty engines started up below, and the ground beneath them shook. They looked over the rim (which was lower than it had been before) and saw the earth movers in motion; the onslaught had resumed. Even as they saw, they were seen; one of the operators pointed up at them, with a shout, and they dropped down again. Max thought fast. "We'll have to destroy the ship," he said.

Michael protested. "But there's more information in it. A lot of things we don't know."

"That's why we have to destroy it. If the Army get their hands on it–"

"Michael!" Isabel was looking down again. "Klima has to take pills, you said." She pointed to Corporal Aguilar, who was standing alone at the foot of the hill and doing just that.

"A lot of people take pills," Max pointed out.

"I got business with this one," said Michael. He plunged his hands into the earth, worked it like clay, and lifted out a basketball.

Isabel clutched at his sleeve. "But how do you know it's him?"

Michael shrugged. "I don't." It appeared that the knowledge he had gained at Feddin's feet had not reformed him entirely. He rose to standing and hurled the ball down at Aguilar (or whoever it was) with superhuman force; more than his arm by itself was capable of. Perhaps he had known more than he had pretended to–perhaps some instinct had told him–for no sooner had the corporal spotted the approaching missile than it exploded. "It's him, all right," said Michael. "He's with the military."

"I don't think they know it, though," said Max.

"That's his advantage," said Isabel. "He can become anyone he likes, any time he likes. If he's out to make war, he can make himself the head of the Army–of _both_ armies. And if he gets hold of this thing–"

Hearing this, Michael understood at last. Klima could destroy the planet; he probably would not want to do that, but he might choose to wipe out the human race. Which would include Maria–but why was Michael thinking of her now?

"You're right," he said to Max, "it has to go. But are we powerful enough to do it?"

"Together–with the energy here at our disposal–maybe. We'll try melting it down."

They joined hands and concentrated. At first the core resisted. Then it changed into a tangle of energy that throbbed and whirled and sparkled. "Are _we_ doing that?" asked Michael.

"_It's_ doing it," Max answered. In response to their desire, re-fueled by the same energy they had invoked, it was finishing the job for them. "God, Max," said Isabel.

Then, unexpectedly, the tangle leapt out at them, and with such force that it blew Michael and Isabel backwards and knocked Max to the ground before dispersing into the air. And as Max fell, the Lodestone slipped–or was drawn–out of his pocket into the hole the core had left, and whose sides now collapsed, filling it with earth and swallowing up the Stone. Max grabbed after it, but too late.

Michael glanced below. Some of the soldiers were starting up the hill. "Time we were out of here," he said.

"The Stone!" Max shouted. "We have to get it back!" But there was no way to do so that he knew of, especially with their enemies closing on them.

"It's gone, Max," said Isabel. "Accept it."

Max would not do that; he _could_ not. Yet he had to. And so, after a moment so long that it seemed to Isabel almost endless, he turned away from the dirt pile in which the Stone might lie buried forever, and the three of them fled over the hill, just ahead of the Army's arrival.

Late that night, as Liz lay in bed, _he_ came in and woke her. His body was still out in the desert; it was his mind that burst into hers, causing her to clutch at her breast and gasp. But that was not out of fear: it was bliss having him inside her. Miles away, he gasped too, and sat up with a lurch, waking his sister, who was lying close by him in the tiny camp that the three of them had made. Michael was still asleep. "What is it, Max?" whispered Isabel. "What's wrong?"

"I made contact with Liz just now," he said. "Didn't mean to, it just happened."

"And she broke it off?"

"No." There was a trace of regret in his voice, but none of doubt, for he had no doubt any longer. To be always at odds with everybody: that was the destiny he had sought, and found. "She didn't break it off," he said. "_I_ did."

And Liz, lying in the aftermath of his precipitate withdrawal, was left still tingling, still steeped in the sense of him, and wanting it never to leave her. "I won't sleep," she promised, regardless of whether he could hear or not, "until you're resting here with me. Here in Roswell–_home._"

**Episode 1.21X**

**Homecoming Day**

"We don't _have_ to be at odds with anybody," said Isabel.

The three who were from Vallosa, but _of_ Earth, had just walked in from the desert, soaked in the vivid oranges and violets of a New Mexico sunset, and now, near its end, they paused at the border of the town they had set out from, which lay placidly awaiting their return. It had not changed, as far as they could see. But they had. Max did not at first recognize the statement his sister was contradicting: the words that he had uttered while they were inside the core of the ship that had brought them to Earth. "Sorry," he said, "what?"

"You said we were destined to be at odds with everybody," said Isabel, "including ourselves. Because we're half and half–half human, half Vallosan. But why is that a given? Why can't we have the best of both worlds? When we became human we lost the power to change shape, and probably other powers too. But we gained something more precious–the power to choose."

Michael stared toward their destination. "And we're choosing _Roswell_?"

"Looking that way," said Max.

"But it's such a crappy little town!"

"But it's our home," said Isabel.

"Our home," Max echoed ruefully. "God help us."

That night Alex found himself wandering in what almost anyone would have sworn was the desert they had just come from. Its counterfeit was beyond the capacity of his dreaming mind to create unaided, and when he turned he knew whom he would see.

"I'm back," she announced brightly.

"Back, are you?" said Alex. "Well, well. What do you know? That–that's a good thing."

The response was not all Isabel had hoped for. "I stopped by earlier, but you were busy. You didn't even look at me."

"Yeah, I've had a lot to do." Alex paused. "You know, in my dreams." He searched the landscape for something to busy himself with at that moment. But deserts were short of busy work.

Isabel strove to keep the conversation alight on her own. "Liz is fine. Did you know that?" Alex had not. "Not poisoned, after all. So it looks like it's okay. For us, I mean. To be together." Feeling more awkward than she was used to, she assumed the queenly form that had so awed him last time, trusting that it would work again. "Come and worship at my altar, puny human," she bade him. She meant it humorously (for the most part), but if Alex chose to take it seriously that would have been all right with her too.

Alex was tempted despite himself. "Yeah, you know, that's all fine, and I'd like to stick around. But I just remembered something important I gotta check on." He made a grimace, in place of a smile. "Waking up now." He opened his eyes; sure enough, he was back in bed. "_Damn_," he said.

In the quiet night outside, a black Cadillac convertible was cruising slowly up Main Street, pulling a Winnebago trailer behind. The front seat of the car was occupied by a man and a woman in black suits. The man's eye fell on a building emblazoned with the letters "UFO" shining in green and yellow. The building was closed now. He pulled to the curb and went to the glass doors to peer in. He could make out nothing inside, and the windows were no help, since they had been painted over. The woman got out after him, lifted a black satchel out of the back seat, and unlatched it to reveal a sealing tape dispenser and a stack of handbills. The man took one and taped it to the nearest lamppost. Then the two of them returned to the car and continued up the street, stopping once or twice in every block to repeat the procedure.

On Saturday morning Liz, who was working the early shift at the Crashdown, happened to spy the notice from across the street and sneaked away from her post long enough to check it out. "Beware!" it warned. "Aliens Among Us! Learn the Truth!" The time it gave was 8:00, that evening and the evening after; the location was the fairground.

Kyle happened along while she was reading. "What's this?" he asked.

"Another alien scam."

He looked it over. "Says it's free."

"Trust me, Kyle, they're selling _something._"

One line of the notice arrested Kyle's attention. "Oh, no," he said.

"Kyle, what is it?"

"Oh, no," he repeated, "no, no." He stepped up to the lamppost, pulled the notice down, and hurried off to find his father.

Jim was not at the station, or on patrol duty; the desk sergeant told Kyle he had no idea where his dad was. But Kyle did. His grandfather was now confined to bed, and the nurse at the rest home said he had not much time left; Junior's visits were growing shorter all the time–today's had lasted only ten minutes–but he kept them up faithfully, with a few lapses.

"Guess I'll be taking off now, Pop," he said as he got up from the chair. Senior did not reply, and had never acknowledged his presence there. "Okay, then, I'll see you tomorrow–or, I don't know, the day after, maybe."

Kyle was waiting in the parking lot at the wheel of the Mustang, on which he would shortly be able to claim squatter's rights. "Yeah, I figured you'd be here," he said.

"Don't suppose you'd care to go in and pay your respects to your granddad?"

"Why, what difference would it make? He's off in the twilight zone, anyway. Not to sound callous about it."

"No, perish the thought." Jim realized he was holding his hat, which he had removed inside. He now returned it to his head. "So what brings you here if it isn't family?"

"Oh, it is," said Kyle. "I came to show you this. In case you haven't seen it." He thrust the notice at him, and spilled the news it contained before his father had had a chance to discover it for himself. "Mom's back."

"Back here? Since when?" Jim read unhappily, and let drop a word he would have rebuked his son for using.

"Ain't life just a kick in the ass?" Kyle observed.

The fairground was vacant at that time of year, yet with all its acreage to choose from, the couple had parked their convertible and trailer by the north gates. The sheriff arrived to find them putting up a large tent of the type used for revival meetings. He sat in his vehicle watching them. He could not make much of the man, except to note with some satisfaction that he was a half foot shorter than himself, and balding.

The woman, at first glimpse, he saw with fresh eyes, and started to think he must have been crazy to let her go; here was someone who was clearly her own woman, but also a man's woman. Then he realized this new impression was the same as his first impression, all those years before–which had lasted only as long as it had taken him to get to know her. He had to admit that had been a while: about Kyle's age at the time.

She noticed him watching her, and her eye lingered on him for a few seconds, with a look he remembered all too well. Seeing it again, he was not sure he wanted to talk to her at all, but to leave then would have looked cowardly. He stepped out of the Rover, approached to within a few yards of her, and stopped. "Michele." He spoke, and looked, like a man discharging an unpleasant but necessary duty.

"Jim." The man with her was pounding in a tent peg a few yards away. When he finished, she summoned him by a glance, and he walked over, still carrying the mallet. "This is my husband," said Michele, "Len Trivitt. Len, my ex­husband, Jim Valenti."

"County sheriff. Yes, I've heard about you." Len made it sound as if what he had heard was not entirely creditable.

"Have you? I hadn't heard about _you._ What are you doing in Roswell?"

"As you see." Len pointed to the notice in Valenti's hand.

Valenti crumpled it. "I saw. What are you doing in Roswell?"

"Our permit is in order. I can show it to you if necessary."

"Believe a copy crossed my desk. Didn't pay it much attention, to tell you the truth."

"You should. Pay attention. It's the duty of every citizen, especially those in law enforcement, to safeguard their homeland against–" He seemed to be seeking the proper word. "–outsiders."

"Ah. A _patriot._" Valenti was more patriotic than most, but he had a feeling this one was not, except in the service of some other, lesser cause.

"Come tonight. It'll open your eyes."

"My vision's working fine, thanks all the same." Len gave him a baleful glare. Then he returned to setting up.

Jim continued watching Michele. "_What?_" she asked finally.

"Nothing you'd care to ask me?"

"I could ask how you've been. But what would be the point?"

"Thought you might ask how _Kyle's_ been. Most moms would. But there you go." This took her a little aback, and she did not attempt no answer. "_One_ thing's settled anyhow," Jim went on. "Kyle thought you left us because you were sick of me harping on aliens all the time. He would think that, of course, because that's what you told him. He knows better now. We both do." He held up the crumpled notice. "It wasn't the aliens. So tell me, Mich, what the hell was it?"

"_You_," she said flatly. "Since you insist on knowing. Just you." Jim felt the sting of it, as she had intended; she watched long enough to make sure, and then went to assist her husband. Jim returned slowly to the Rover, trying to shake the last part of the conversation from his mind. As he drove out the gates, she glanced after him; it would have given him a little of his own back to see that she looked almost as unhappy as he did.

Alex too was up early, and getting ready to leave for town. He had stopped at the hall mirror to adjust his bow tie when his father staggered past in his nightshirt, heading for the kitchen. "Why you all dressed up on a Saturday?" he asked.

Alex followed him, picking up his portfolio on the way, and watched from the door as Don took down the Cheerios box and began searching the cupboards for the right-sized bowl. "My meeting. I told you."

"Ye-es. Now I remember."

"You were going to stop by later. Like we discussed."

"_As_ we discussed."

"Dad, this could be a big deal for me, if I can swing it. Maybe I don't have a band any more, but I can _hire_ bands."

"Yeah, that's great, Alex." Don was pouring out the little "o"s a few at a time, to insure they did not stack up higher than the rim of the bowl. "Congratulations."

"I haven't done it yet!" He watched as his father rolled the cereal bag shut–five turns exactly–and returned the tab on the box into its slot. "Then I can expect you around 10:30?" he asked. Don was thinking he might also want a banana. "Dad?"

"Huh? Sure, Alex, sure." _No, no banana_, he decided. He turned away to open the refrigerator.

"To inspect the premises." Alex took two or three steps closer to him. "Dad, 10:30, okay?"

Don turned with a look of exasperation on his face and a milk carton in his hand. "I'm not simple-minded, Alex! If I said I'd be there, I'll be there."

"'_If._' Fine." Alex was still far from confident of that guarantee. But he had to get going. "I'll see you then," he said. His father did not hear him. He was calculating the proper level for his milk.

Leaving him the Volvo, Alex set out on his red bicycle for the building he had had his eye on for the past month. It was situated two blocks from the cafe and had two floors of offices, but the only part Alex cared about was in the basement.

He entered by the glass door that fronted the sidewalk and took the stairs down, two at a time. On reaching bottom he nearly collided with the man he had come to see. "Mr. Fulweider? So sorry. Alex Whitman." He stuck out his hand–a little too brashly, he feared.

Fulweider seized it even more brashly, and pumped it as if it were labeled "Shake well before use." "Call me Cy, kid," he said. "You're on time. That's good. I like a kid that's on time. Shows he's on the ball. Basement room's back here. That was what you wanted to see, wasn't it?" He beckoned him down the narrow hall to a barn-like storeroom, which looked pretty much the way Alex had remembered it.

"So, kid," said Cy, "what's the concept? In words an old fart like me can understand."

"A club. For teens mostly. Music, dancing, drinks." He quickly clarified the last word. "Non-alcoholic."

"Good, good. One less license to worry about. And easier on the insurance. Believe me, the insurance can kill you."

"I visualize it as a showcase for emerging bands. Music of the future. Which of course ties in with the theme."

"Which is?" Alex looked blank. "The _theme_, kid, the theme! Lay it on me."

"Oh, right. Here." Alex unzipped his portfolio and took out a drawing. The room it pictured resembled a snack bar in Walt Disney's Tomorrowland circa 1955. "I call it the Orbit Lounge. We'd have ambient space music between the acts. Dance floor here, stage there, bar over there. What do you think?"

Cy looked out over the room, squinting, as if that helped him see better. "Nah, nah, nah," he declared. "Never work."

"Huh? Oh." Alex was disappointed to have his idea rejected so fast. But he figured he knew a lot less than Cy about these things. "Okay," he said, "well, thanks for your time." He returned the drawing to the portfolio. "I'll just–"

Cy was moving around the floor, paying him no attention. "Stage'll have to go here, by the heavy-duty outlets. Bar on this side next to the pipes. You got yourself a plan there, kid."

Alex brightened. "You really think so?"

This made Cy doubtful for a moment. "Why, don't you?"

"Sure!" Alex was quick to affirm. "Absolutely! I just thought... And you'd be willing to put up the capital?"

"Show me the numbers and we'll talk."

"Got 'em right here." Alex opened the portfolio again.

Cy clapped him on the back. "I like doing business with you, kid. You come prepared."

A voice called down from the entrance. "Alex?"

_Will wonders never cease?_ he thought. His father had actually shown up, and early. "Down here!" he called back. "It's my dad," he told Cy. "He's a building inspector with the city. I asked him to stop by and give the place the once-over, just informally, to see if there are any issues we should be aware of. Hope you don't mind me jumping the gun. I figured it'd save time if we did reach an agreement."

"That's the way, kid. Think positive. And always stay two jumps ahead."

Don appeared at the doors. "Ha, found you. It's like a maze down here."

"Dad, this is Cy Fulweider. Cy, my dad."

"Don Whitman."

The two shook. "Don, you got yourself one sharp kid here."

Alex felt embarrassed but pleased. "Do I?" said Don; this diluted Alex's pleasure a little. Without further preliminaries his father began nosing around, peering through doors and into corners. "What was the plan again?" he asked. "Some kind of rec center, was it?"

"A _club_, Dad. With live music."

"Ha, neighbors'll love that." Don shook his head. "Place shouldn't present any major problems. It _was_ a dance club years back." He looked at Cy. "Maybe you remember it?"

"Before my time, Don." _He must mean his time in Roswell_, thought Alex. _He's sixty if he's a day_.

"So, Alex," said Don, "what's the gag? You planning to turn this into a mod hipsters' pad?"

Whenever he tried to speak the lingo (which, happily, was not often), Alex could barely understand him. "Don't know about the hipsters," he said. "But here's the plan." He took out the drawing again.

"Didn't know you could draw." Don lifted his glasses to examine it more closely.

"I can't," Alex freely admitted. "I sketched out what I wanted, and Markos..." He saw that his father's face had grown flushed; that meant he was upset at something. "Dad, what is it?"

Don handed the drawing back. "I don't think this is such a good idea, Alex."

"Why not?"

"Looks like you're treating the whole alien business as a joke. Some people might not appreciate that."

"What people?"

Cy barged in before he could answer. "Now, now, Don, we can modify the concept. Always room for a little improvement. The key thing–" He laid a hand on his back and started to guide him out; to Alex he mouthed the words "Wait here." "–is to piggyback on the town's existing image," he went on. "Roswell, flying saucers, spacemen, famous monsters, screen thrills. Snare ourselves some free publicity–which as an intelligent individual I'm sure you'll appreciate. Besides, Don, an orbit lounge isn't the same as an invasion of saucer men, hah? A lounge is a place to _relax._" The two of them exited into the hall.

"'Way to go, Alex,'" muttered Alex. "'Gee, thanks, Dad.' That'll be the day." Then he brightened. "But I got the deal!" He felt like telling someone, anyone–that is, anyone other than his father.

Two blocks down, Kyle was sitting by himself, nibbling his doughnut thoughtfully (for him). "Always wanted a sister," he said.

Maria was behind the counter, refilling a napkin dispenser. "Why, so you could steal her toys?"

"Don't worry, I won't steal Michael."

"Funny. _Not._"

"This could be worse, you know."

"We could be in jail?"

"We could be living with my mom." That reminded him. "And your mom better not do the same number on my dad that she did."

"Hey, if anyone's gonna step on anyone in this relationship, it's Mr. Law and Order."

"He's not like that." Then Kyle thought about it a moment. "Okay, he is. But it sounds like your mom could use some stepping on. I hear she's a real loose cannon."

"Your dad said that?"

"I've heard it around."

"From who? Who's been insulting my mother?" Maria held up the coffeepot menacingly.

"Whoa!" Kyle sprang from his seat. "Not wise to assault the son of Mr. Law and Order. Not to mention your new stepbrother. I'm outa here." He made for the doors.

"You didn't pay for your doughnut!"

He waved airily. "Put it on my dad's tab."

"He doesn't _have_ a tab." But Kyle was out of hearing, or pretending to be. "And tries to weasel out of paying," Maria concluded, speaking to herself, "just like his spawn."

In heading out he nearly bumped into Alex heading in. "_You're_ dressed up," Kyle remarked.

"Yes, I am, Kyle. Astute of you to notice. And you want to know why?"

Kyle thought. "Nah, I don't really care." He went on.

Alex continued to the counter. "Hey, Maria."

"_You're_ dressed up," she said.

"Again, yes. And you want to–?" A customer called her away before he could finish.

Liz passed by on her way to the kitchen. "Liz! _Sweetheart!_" A little of Cy had rubbed off on Alex without his knowing it. Liz nodded at him coolly, remembering their last conversation. "Ask me why I'm dressed up. Go ahead, ask."

"I can't now. I have orders waiting." This being his third strike, Whitman left the field.

Outside, he found the Trivitts putting up more copies of their self-advertisement in the spots they had missed earlier. Alex came up behind Michele and perused it over her shoulder. "Nice layout you got there. With the spacecraft hovering and everything."

"The woman who does them for us is very good." She vouchsafed Alex a knowing smile. "I'm Michele Trivitt." Just then Len came up and took more copies out of the satchel slung over her shoulder. "This is my husband Len."

"Alex Whitman." He thrust out his hand. "Manager of the Orbit Lounge. You may not have heard of it yet. Interestingly, it too has an alien theme."

Len pointed to the UFO above the cafe. "Like that?" Then to the "UFO" sign on the other side. "Or that?"

"No, everyone's been there, done those. I like to see us as putting a twenty-first-century spin on the conventional alien motif while optimizing the potential of its subliminal retro associations." _What the hell am I saying?_ he asked himself.

"And you believe these efforts will save you?" Len asked.

"Uh, sorry?"

"Once they take over, you think they'll cherish a soft spot for the quislings who paved their way?"

"Still not with you there. Could be your use of the term 'quisling'–"

"Then you're one of the innocents. Lambs to the slaughter. Never suspecting that your Crashdown, your UFO Center, your Planet Club–"

"Orbit Lounge, actually."

"–are so much propaganda, designed to embed a false conception of extra-terrestrials as cute and harmless–'Phone home, phone home'–when all the while they're moving into position to strike." Alex could not help laughing at this. "You laugh," said Len. He pressed a notice into Alex's hand. "Come tonight and learn the truth. We'll see if you're still laughing then." And he moved to the next block to continue spreading the word.

"Commitment," Alex said, watching him go. "He's got commitment. That's a good thing." He considered. "Focus is a _little_ narrow, though."

Michele had moved away too. Having seen that the notice they had posted outside the UFO Center was missing, she had gone across to replace it. Farther up the block, she spied Valenti's Rover; Amy was stepping out of it. As Jim swung around and headed the other way, she started into the building. Her way lay past Michele, who stepped out to speak to her. "Excuse me, you must be Jim's new friend. I'm right, aren't I?"

Amy caught the patronizing air; she had heard it often enough before. "Fiancé, in point of fact. And you are?"

"The ex-wife."

"Oh!" This unsettled Amy a little. "Jim didn't mention you were in town."

Michele let that pass. "We're speaking at the fairground tonight. You should come." She handed her one of the notices. "You work at the museum?"

"No, just scouting out ideas. I'm self-employed." She put a slight emphasis on the "self." Then she pulled out a key ring linked to a figurine of the Roswell alien (the one Isabel liked to call "Max") and dangled it in front of Michele's nose. "_This_ is what I do."

The other woman cast a pitying look on her. "So he's sucked you in too, has he?"

"Has he?"

"Into his alien obsession. Don't kid yourself. Wife or no, you'll always play second fiddle to _that._" She indicated the figurine.

"I see." Amy skimmed the notice. "And what chair are you occupying now?"

_Point for her side_, Michele had to concede. "I know, it looks like I just bounced from one UFO nut to another. But this is different. It's an assignment."

"Is it?" Beneath Amy's pursuit of fugitive ideas a native shrewdness had always thrived, and it asserted itself now. "Who does the assigning?"

Michele's guard rose again. "Come listen tonight. You may be motivated to change lifestyles yourself."

Amy did not show up that evening (fat chance, as her daughter might have said), but plenty of other people did: the Trivitts commanded a full house and then some. Don Whitman's UFO group took up the entire front row. Liz, who was there checking out the event on Max's behalf, ran into Pam Troy, who also was alone, to Liz's great surprise. "Kyle's not with you?" she asked.

"He wouldn't come. The jerk! And he knew I wanted to see this."

"Well, she _is_ his mom. It's tough for him."

"Like I don't have problems? The two of us are _so_ over. We didn't have much in common anyway. Except the–" She stopped, putting her hand to her mouth, and turned on Liz a pair of eyes brim-full of sympathy. "Oh, I'm sorry. You _haven't_ yet, have you?" She squeezed Liz's hand. "You'll know too, dear. _One_ day." _Now I remember why I hate her_, thought Liz.

The lights that were strung along the tent frame blinked off and on. Excusing herself, Pam went to choose a seat, and Liz did the same. When all the spectators had done so, or resigned themselves to standing, Michele stepped up to the mike. "Good evening to you all," she said. "I'm Michele Trivitt." Outside, huge loudspeakers broadcast her voice throughout town. Her ex-husband heard it from his office window and paused in his work to listen. "Some of you knew me as Michele Valenti," she went on. "To you, as well as those of you I haven't met yet, welcome. And thanks for coming. I recognize there are other places you could have elected to spend your Saturday night–and none of them are in Roswell." The crowd laughed. "I guarantee you won't regret electing to spend it here."

At that point the ship-borns entered at the rear of the tent, where there was standing room only. Liz had been watching hopefully for them, and when she saw Max her heart jumped. She would have gone to him immediately but would have had to force a path through the crowd, and called too much attention to herself and him. Near him she saw Ms. Topolsky, looking (for want of a better word) lost; her appearance worried Liz a little.

"Though most of you will be unaware of it," the speaker continued, drawing Liz's focus to the front again, "a threat hangs over our nation–over our world. You won't see it reported in the newspapers, in magazines, or on tv, but it grows more imminent every day. It's impossible to predict when the blow will fall–maybe tomorrow, maybe next week, maybe next year. But it _will_ fall–unless the necessary measures are taken immediately. Len will spell out for you what those will entail. He's been a long time uncovering the facts, he's visited a lot of places, and spoken to a lot of people. You're here want to know the truth, and he's here to tell you. Ladies and gentlemen, my husband, Len Trivitt."

Len took over the mike amid scattered applause. "Do you know who you are? Do you?" His listeners were puzzled. "_I_ do. I hope _you_ do. You know when you were born, where you were grew up, where you went to school, who you dated, and married"–he smiled at Michele–"where you work, what you work at–all this you know." He paused for effect. "But what about the man next to you? How much do you know about him? If you grew up with him, or you work with him, you know who he is, right? Am I right?" He paused again. "_Wrong._ He may be just who you think he is–or he may not be. He may look the same, act the same–but inside he's not the same. He's a fake–a replacement put here to fool you. And there are a lot of them, these fakes. You can't tell them from the real thing. The woman in front of you at the checkstand. The couple next door. The teenager next to you on the road. _Me._"

His audience made uneasy shuffling noises. "Sounds crazy, right? Am I right?" No one answered. "Let me tell you something. The government has a list, with hundreds of names on it–and that's only those that are known. Why are they here? Who put them here? What's their game? Ultimately, to destroy us." He waved his hands. "I know, you don't want to believe it. I didn't either. But tonight you'll see the evidence, which was classified until very recently. Memos, photos, scientific reports that prove beyond a shadow of a doubt there are enemies among us. Not just the fakes–the people you think you know. But the ones you don't know. The strangers–the wrong ones."

The ship-borns had begun to look worried. And they were not alone. "Look around," said Len. "Anyone here you don't recognize?" People began searching for unfamiliar faces. "That new neighbor. New man on the job. New teacher at your child's school. New kid in class. And all the visitors–the tourists–the bus passengers. Who knows where they came from? And the misfits–the loners–the oddballs. The ones who don't make friends. You know who I mean. You know who they are, right? Am I right?" Some in the crowd began to stare hard at some others. "Just imagine how many more of them are out there! In Albuquerque and Santa Fe, Nevada and Colorado. All over the country. All over the world. All those _strangers._ Who are they? What are they hiding? Where did they come from?"

Michele, who had moved to the rear as he was talking, flipped a breaker, and the tent fell dark; some of the spectators gasped. She switched on a slide projector beside her, and an image flashed onto a screen behind Len: a photo of Earth as seen from space. "They came from _there._" Next appeared a photo of a UFO. "And they landed _here._" And next–which startled the ship-borns–a photo of the rocks where they had just been, where the core was buried. "There've been incidents–fifty years of incidents. You've read about them yourself–maybe you've experienced some of them. Sightings, animal mutilations–even murders." This catalog was accompanied by a series of crime-scene-like photos, including one of the silver handprint–and, last of all, a shot of a turquoise dress stained with blood. Liz gave a small cry, and immediately covered her mouth. That was _her_ dress, from the day she had died.

Glancing back, she saw the ship-borns slipping out, together with a few others trying to beat the rush to the parking lot. As Isabel was leaving, she spotted Alex eyeing her furtively from a side seat; when she returned his look, he looked away. Subduing her disappointment, she joined the others outside a few yards from the tent, where they paused to confer.

"This is the worst," said Max.

"Like a nightmare come true," Isabel agreed.

"What do we do?" asked Michael.

Just then, the tent lights came up. "Be sure to come back tomorrow night," they heard from inside and over the loudspeakers. "You won't be sorry." This was followed by loud applause. People began standing.

"We get out of here, is what," said Max, in answer to Michael's question. "We'll talk tomorrow." He and Isabel took off.

Michael did not, and was the only one left by the time Liz made her way outside. "Is Max gone?" she asked. "I was wanting to talk to him."

"Yeah, well, we all want stuff." He did not have anything more useful to say.

"Is he okay? I mean, are all of you?"

"We got through it," Michael said. "And we returned to find–this. I guess maybe Klima was right." But this time he said it with unmixed regret. "Maybe it's going to be a war, after all."

Liz nodded toward the tent. "It will be if people listen to those two. Sounds like that's what they want. And want _us_ to want. But why?" Michael shook his head.

Alex had intended at first to wait for his father but had then decided there was no point: the UFO group was gathered around the speakers, besieging them with questions to the point of crowding out all other comers; clearly, they would not leave until they were asked to. So Alex left. On the way out he passed Topolsky, still standing at the rear–the only one left there now–and he greeted her by name, but she gave no sign of hearing him. He was a little worried for her too.

Michael noticed her as she left the tent. He had continued hanging around with the objective of doing the Trivitts some mischief (like erasing their slides) and had only just come to the realization that it would be pointless: the information they were communicating was now public knowledge; it ought not to have been, but it was, and Michael could do nothing about that. So he decided to keep a watch on Topolsky instead. She looked as if she might bear watching.

She turned in at the first alley, stepped into the circle of a street lamp, raised a standard-issue S & W .40 (which Michael had not seen she had), and aimed it into her open mouth. It would not fire. She stared down the barrel: it was welded solid.

A hand took it from her. "You don't want to do that, teacher," said a voice she knew. Her eyes rolled back into her head. Michael grabbed her just before she fell.

She woke on a brown sofa in a small apartment. The first thing that met her eyes was a "Danger" sign on the kitchen wall. _Appropriate_, she thought. She had not yet recognized where she was.

It came to her when she saw Michael at the sink. He brought in a cup of juice he had just finished squeezing with Isabel's housewarming gift, and he knelt to give it to her. "Tomato-guava," he said. "Maria turned me onto it."

Topolsky took a sip, but hardly tasted it. "Never thought you'd be saving me."

Michael shrugged. "Life is strange."

"That's affirmative. You have no idea how strange mine has been."

"I might," said Michael. Topolsky looked at him uncertainly. "For instance, I know about what happened to you the day of the big UFO bash. At the rocks."

"No, that was–"

"A dream? That's what everybody said, wasn't it? When you tried to tell them? Until you got so you weren't sure yourself any more. And you joined the FBI to find out. But that didn't help, because even when you found out the crash was the real deal, you still couldn't be sure about what happened to you that day. It was real. One hundred percent. You can trust me on this one."

"How could you know?"

"I saw a–kind of a movie of it."

"Where?"

Michael debated whether to tell her. "In the ship." Topolsky struggled to make sense of this. "We found it. We were inside it."

Topolsky could scarcely believe what she was hearing. "Take me there! Please!"

"I can't," Michael said quickly. "I mean, I'd like to"–that was only half true–"but it's gone now. It self-destructed."

Topolsky felt disappointed again, as she had so often before. "What did it do to me? I know it did something. But I don't remember what."

"They cut that part," Michael said truthfully. He could not tell her the whole truth; not yet.

"It was the ship that brought _you_, wasn't it?" Michael nodded; she knew already, and so there was no point in pretending any more. "Maybe that's why I feel so close to you," she said. "To all of you."

"Yeah, that's probably it." He was eager–childishly eager–to reveal the true nature of their bond, and also to realize it; after all, he had never known a mother. But he could not take it on himself to do so without the others' approval. Yet he could not leave Topolsky on her own either; not after what she had tried to do, and with what she now knew. "You better stick close to us from now on," he said.

The suggestion seemed to agree with her. "But will your friends trust me?"

"After the show tonight it won't be easy for us to trust anybody." He smiled. "But I'll work on 'em."

The next day was Easter. But Alex did not spend the morning in church. He was laboring in his lounge-to-be, pushing a floor brush that Fulweider had lent him and using a sheet of pegboard–in the absence of a dustpan–to transfer the refuse to a bag.

Gradually he became aware that something was happening around him: the walls were changing color. From off-white (which had probably begun life as white) they were changing to Loden green; it streamed down them in a smooth coat, like paint from a roller. It scared him, and he could not look away from it, because it was on all sides.

Then he realized who was doing it. Not that many people knew Loden green was his favorite color. Also, he could sense her in back of him, he did not know how; sound, smell, something. He turned to confirm the impression. Yup. Only she was closer to him than he had expected. "Change it back," he said.

Isabel reached out to touch his arm. "Alex?" He stepped out of her reach. "Alex, guess what? I'm human–at least, half of me is." Alex looked her over despite himself, as if checking out the claim. "All three of us are. We had to be, you see, to survive here. We're like you."

Alex cast an eye to the wall. "Not exactly."

"True. We're not _exactly_ like anyone. But that doesn't mean you and I can't be close." She reached out for him again.

"I said, change it back!"

"Alex, please? With so much hostility out there, can't we share just a little affection?"

He turned on her. "It's _me_, all right? Not you, me. I thought I could do it–break down the fences, hop a comet, and go sailing through the galaxy like Liz. But I'm strictly a small-town guy. An alien girlfriend is great in theory." He forestalled the correction Isabel was about to make. "Okay, _half_-alien. But that's half too much. I don't like you popping up in my dreams, or changing ketchup to mustard, or being on the FBI's most-wanted list. I only want to lead my simple little earthly life without any complications. Please, Isabel, change it back. Now."

Sighing, Isabel did as requested; in a few seconds the room was restored to its former off-white. "Guess you wouldn't be up for breaking into their trailer, then. To find out what all they have on us?" Alex's face told the answer. "No, I didn't think so," she said; and her face told of regret. "All right, Alex. Have it your own way. But you could have chosen differently."

When she had left, Alex retreated to the wall and sank down–shrank down–to the floor. He had never felt so measly in his life. "How?" he asked the not-quite-swept, not-quite-white room. "Tell me, _how_?"

After a long day of sweeping and wiping, which had felt less satisfying after Isabel's visit and had been interrupted by many things–meal breaks, further musings on his plans for the place, and intermittent funks in which he did nothing but stare at the walls and reflect on how much better they would look in Loden green–Alex came home feeling despondent on the whole. And it did not cheer him up to find that his father's UFO conclave was still in session, past its usual time.

As he passed the door of the den his father waved at him. "Alex! We were just talking about you. Step in here for a minute, will you?" Alex did so, a little warily. "You know most of the group. But there is one new face–Phil?"

The man turned toward them. "Mr. Evans!" Alex said in surprise. "Never saw you at one of these before." In fact he was the only sensible man he had ever seen in that room.

"Only my second time," Philip said.

"But not the last, I hope," said Don, patting him on the back with greater familiarity than Philip appeared comfortable with. "Phil was just telling us he's filed an appeal for the release of Doc Grunewald."

"Grunewald?" This surprised Alex even more. "Didn't think you were a big fan of his after what he did to Max."

"Excuse me, we don't _know_ what he may have done to Max, or vice versa. Max isn't saying. In any case, Grunewald's now a victim himself. There was no hearing to ascertain his sanity. The government secreted him away to silence him. But they can't suppress the truth forever." Alex listened in amazement; he began to wonder if he were dreaming it all. Isabel could have told him–but no; he did not want to think about Isabel.

"Alex," said Don, with the air of bringing up an unpleasant subject, "the fellas and I were just discussing this Space Bar of yours."

"Orbit Lounge," Alex noted.

"Whatever. We feel it'd be more prudent if you were to take a different tack."

"Oh? Why's that?"

It was Philip who replied. "We're seeing a growing backlash against the continuing and systematic effort by the media to instill in the public mind a sympathetic attitude toward nehis–"

"Excuse me," said Alex, "nehis?"

"NHIs," Don translated. "Non-human incursors."

"–to distract us," Philip finished, "from the very real menace they pose to our human way of life."

Don's description was more succinct. "Bunch of pro-alien propaganda, is all it is."

Alex looked from one to the other. "You sound like those two at the fairground." He did not remember seeing Philip there, but then he had not been looking for him.

"They know what they're talking about," his father averred.

"They're fanatics!" Alex insisted. Then he thought twice. "Or they're pretending to be."

"What do you mean?" said Philip.

"Kind of funny, don't you think, their showing up right at the same time the Army's moving in?"

A man he did not recognize stood up. "What do you know about that?"

"Everybody's seen the Jeeps on the highway," said Alex. "I bet it's got something to do with this new energy bureau, BEAM." He turned to Philip. "Ever hear of it?"

"Heard the name. That's all."

"Probably how they prefer to keep it."

"You want to watch that kind of loose talk," the stranger said.

Alex distrusted him already. "Excuse me, who are you?"

"This is Trent," said Don. "He's from–where was it, now?" Trent did not answer.

"So you're a booster of this covert agency?" Alex asked him.

"Extraordinary crimes have to be stamped out by agencies extraordinary." Alex had heard something of the kind before but could not remember where. Trent stepped closer to him, close enough for Alex to detect whisky on his breath and a dull meanness in his eyes. "Believe me, son," he said, "you don't want to come down on the wrong side of this thing."

Alex's dislike of what the man stood for exceeded his fear of the man himself and spurred him to stand his ground, almost against his own will. "Agreed," he said. "Before choosing a side I like to know exactly who I'm siding with." Trent's scowl deepened. "'night, Dad," said Alex. "Mr. Evans." As he left the room he heard a voice behind him: "Where'd you say he goes to school?" The voice was Trent's. This unsettled Alex. But it also made him angry. He had been headed for his room but now changed his mind; Isabel might have had an idea, at that. He slipped out the front door while his father's group was still engaged in noisy agreement with one another.

The fairground was empty when he got there. The tent and the trailer were both dark; he listened for voices and heard none. He went to the trailer door and knocked. He had no idea what he would say if someone answered, but he guessed that no one would and he was right. He searched the tent for an object he could force the door with; all he could find was a clipboard–not ideal, but it might do. He tried to wedge it between the door and the frame. A minute's effort told him that would not work. As he was contemplating what to try next, he heard a voice in his ear, which made him jump: "You realize breaking and entering's a crime?"

For a moment Alex was afraid the voice was Trent's. He was actually relieved to recognize it as belonging to a representative of duly constituted authority. "So it's important to know what you're doing," Valenti concluded, stepping up beside him; Alex now saw he was carrying a long crowbar. He ran his eye along the door frame until he found a gap and jammed the bar into it. "Give me a hand here, will you?" The two of them leaned their combined weight on it, and with a crunch the door popped open. "Like a can of peas," said Valenti.

"I never liked peas much." Then Alex realized this was not quite to the point. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

"Same as you. Investigating." They stepped up into the cavelike space. Valenti activated his flashlight. It showed up a stack of boxes in the corner, on each of which were stenciled the letters "B E A M." "I was right," said Alex. "That's who they're working for."

"You mean, who planted them here. Or it mighta been some other group BEAM is partners with."

"Who?"

"Take your pick. FBI, CIA, WB, any set of initials that come to mind. There's nobody we can rule out absolutely."

"Why would they send out agents to stir up prejudice against aliens?"

"If I was guessing? As justification to do what they want with them. Like those two kids–snatch them, harness them, milk them for all they're worth. And if any bleeding hearts get wind of it, you can always say you're just putting down the bad guys."

"'Who have no rights the white man is bound to respect,'" Alex quoted.

Valenti nodded. "History repeats."

"Then may I take it you're no longer a believer in the alien conspiracy?"

"Wouldn't go that far. But it's obviously it's not the only conspiracy going."

Alex shook his head. "I don't want to be mixed up in this. Not at all."

Valenti smiled grimly. "Me either, son. What's that got to do with it?"

Alex's eye fell on a map that was pinned to the wall. "Sheriff? Some light over here." It was what he had thought: a copy of the cave map. One area was circled in red. Alex did not have to read the label to recognize it. "That's Angels' Ground."

Not far from the fairground lay the UFO Center, which was closed for the night. But someone was inside. The manager, having received a report of a prowler from a neighboring property owner, now returned to check it out. He lived nearby, and he felt a responsibility to his archives–the Sadusky collection–if not to the barn-like edifice that housed them. Through its front doors he saw a light, and a shadow flitting back and forth in front of it. He quietly let himself in and crept down to see whose shadow it was.

He was relieved, but also puzzled, to find Max there, hard at work. He had somehow slid aside two of the exhibit cases to clear a wall, and was now walking along it–and as he walked, forms materialized in front of him, bulging out of the plaster one after another: he was sculpting a relief mural with no hands. Milton was too astonished to do anything but stare. On reaching the end of the wall, Max turned and saw him at the foot of the stairs. "Milt! I–" But no further words came.

With his well-tried air of office as a recourse, Milton was sooner able to put a good face on the situation. "What's all this, Evans? Eh?" He trotted out to take a look.

From a distance the piece had been too complicated to make out, a wild tangle of shapes and colors. Up close, all was so vividly clear that it almost set Milton back on his heels. Below a sign that identified this new section of the museum as the "Hall of Humans," with "Lest you forget" as its motto, the mural vividly chronicled the most terrible deeds in human history from antiquity through the present. Some of them were in the history books; some, Milton–who was up on his history–did not recognize, and he wondered where Max had dredged them up from.

"The other side of the coin," said Max. "Humans and the suffering they've caused. They're the real monsters." He was not forgetting that he was human himself; indeed, that fact was uppermost in his mind.

"Not a fan of the species," Milton mused. "So you think our planet ought to be handed over to the newcomers lock, stock, and barrel?"

"I don't know about that." Max pondered. "No. I guess it's six of one, half dozen of the other." _That describes me_, he thought. _It describes the three of us._ Then he remembered his "place," as his employer would see it: he was just a kid who worked there part-time, not a curator or an exhibiting artist. "Sorry I put this up without asking. I was–inspired." By an attack of self-loathing, he might have added.

Milton let his eyes wander among the other exhibits, which he had put up himself, and with considerably more trouble than it had taken Max. "Back in third grade," he said, "I was the most popular kid in class. The one who knew all about the aliens. Every day at recess the others would ask me scads of questions. And I had all the answers. Then they moved on. By the sixth grade they were making fun of me–Miltie the Martian, they called me. And in high school–well, forget it. But I couldn't stop. I was hooked. And my greatest hope was that some day–some day..." He looked squarely at Max. "Keep me on the beam, Evans. Tell me you're not one of _those._" He pointed across to a dummy of a bug-eyed monster.

Max smiled. "No, I can honestly say I'm not one of those."

Milton turned to the new installation. "And humans aren't all like this. But you know that, don't you?" And Max did, then; funny how a second perspective could keep a person "on the beam," as Milton had put it. He was an okay guy, Max decided, or was trying to be. As he took a second look at the mural its virtues stood out more clearly, the initial shock having passed. "On the other hand," he granted, "I guess a little self-analysis never hurt anybody."

"You mean you're going to keep it?"

"Too much trouble to take it down. And it might get us some favorable coverage. I'll send out the release tomorrow."

Max had not expected this. On Vallosa everyone had created art, and he had done that; on Earth they kept it around for other people to see, and now he was doing that too; he had to now. Six of one: there were ways. "Come on, Evans," said Milton. "Time to go home." He paused as if making up his mind to something, and then spoke in his natural voice. "Glad you chose this as your–destination. I hope _you_ are."

Max found an understanding in Milton's eyes he had not expected to see there. "Working on it."

His boss laid an encouraging hand on his shoulder. "Don't give up on us. I need you here."

Max smiled at him. "You're right, Milt. Some humans aren't so bad." Milton returned the smile, and they walked out together.

The following morning Alex stopped in at the Crashdown to warn Liz that her interest in Angels' Ground was shared by the new visitors, or by those who had sent them. He also wanted to find out what all she knew about the place. But his musician's timing betrayed him again. She, Michael, and Maria had been working every day through the spring break; since Maria was still barely speaking to either of the others, conditions were strained at best. And this morning Liz did not trust herself to speak to anyone except in her capacity as a server; it was the morning her mother was due to leave. So when Alex (whom she had already written off in any case) tried repeatedly to engage her attention, following her from sideboard to table to counter, Liz refused to acknowledge his presence by either word or sign, making him feel rather foolish. Yet he did not give up; the matter was too important to both of them, to all of them. "Liz," he began, "you remember what you were saying before about–"

He had gotten only that far when her mother entered from the back room. Jeff was trailing her with armloads of suitcases, which he carried out to the Acura in front. Lacking for the moment any customers whose needs required filling, Liz picked out an empty table and pretended to be cleaning it.

Nancy came over to her. "I'm going now, Liz." Her daughter gave no indication of having heard her, any more than she had seemed to hear Alex. "You can visit whenever you like," Nancy said. "No need to call ahead." She hesitated and then went on. "After you graduate, if you should decide–that is, I would like having you in the house. I'd like to continue being your mother." Still no sign Liz had heard; Nancy made a last attempt. "Don't I even get a farewell hug?"

"Oh, Mom!" Liz ran into the back, fighting away tears–and her mother, now left standing alone, was fighting similarly. She had hoped for a happier send-off. But, all in all, this one better befitted the life she had known there. She left without a goodbye, unless it had been implied in her last words. _Not the best time to talk to Liz_, Alex decided, and he left too, headed for his lounge-in-the-making.

When he saw it he got a shock. At some time during the night the room had been trashed, what there was of it to trash: the walls had been spray-painted with anti-alien slogans, some barely readable, and some obscene: "Martians Go Home," "Nehi Lover," "ET Fone DEAD," a crude rendering of the Roswell alien inside the "No..." icon, and more of the same. The perpetrators were not in sight. "Is this supposed to scare me?" he shouted with bravado. But he approached the door of the closet door, which was shut, with some trepidation.

Soon after the building opened, Isabel stopped by again. She found the room empty to appearances, but when she poked her head into the closet she discovered Alex inside, squatting with his arms clasped around his knees. "Why did you come back?" he asked.

Isabel knelt beside him. "I felt your need." This elicited the kind of look from him that she would have expected–which was very much like "that look" of hers: maybe they had more in common than either of them knew. "No, literally," she said.

Alex almost smiled. "Can't keep any secrets from you, can I?"

"Do you want to?"

"I don't know." He dropped his head. "I don't know anything any more. That stuff on the walls..."

"I can make it go away." Then Isabel remembered how her last offer of help had been received. "If you'd like me to, that is."

"I don't want it to go away, I want it never to have happened."

"So at the first sign of opposition, you give up?"

"I didn't say that."

Isabel smiled encouragingly. "Then you're going ahead with your plans."

"I didn't say that either." He was silent for a while. "I just thought it'd be a cool business venture, you know? I didn't expect threats or hate crimes. I didn't expect a war!"

"Alex, sometimes we get situations we don't ask for. The question is, do you face them or run away?"

"I duck," said Alex. "Until it's all over."

"Time you came out of hiding, wouldn't you say?"

"I'm too chicken."

"And you think I'm not? You have a whole world to reinforce your image of yourself. Until a week ago I had nothing–no validation, no explanation of who I was, or who I could be. Then I met someone who showed me. It was liberating. For once I could say, 'I am what I am, I'll do what I want.' Then it all went wrong and she was gone and I had no one to turn to. Except you–and you turned away."

"Like you never did that to me? Every time I thought we were going to nail down this thing between us–"

"I know, Alex, I was stupid and I'm sorry. Once this crisis is over–"

"Will that ever happen? Isn't crisis what our life's all about?"

"Ours?" Isabel looked hopeful now. "Is that what you want, Alex?"

He gazed at her with a fervency she found really touching. "Oh, yes. Definitely." Then he wavered. "I mean, I think so."

"Alex!" He could be so exasperating sometimes! Isabel got to her feet. "All right, then. Are you willing to stand up for it?"

"Huh?"

"Us. This place. Yourself."

That whipped up Alex's courage. "You bet!" Then he wavered again. "Uh, the only thing–"

"_Alex!_ "

"Okay, yes!"

Isabel waited. "Well? Come on." Alex looked baffled. "Do it!"

"Huh?" Then he realized. "Oh, you mean–" He stood up–for them, the place, himself. Isabel clasped his hands and planted a kiss on his lips, which extended itself pleasantly.

A few minutes later they came out into the graffitied room. "Who was responsible for this?" asked Isabel.

"Probably my dad's UFO buddies. They've been listening to those rabble-rousers at the fairground–who are working for BEAM, by the way."

"You know that for a fact?"

"I burglarized their trailer like you asked."

"Oh, Alex! How sweet of you!"

"It was the sheriff who did it, mainly. For an officer of the law, he's very cool about committing felonies. BEAM's name was on everything in the place. They're war-mongering, is what it is. Against–well, against you guys."

"What do they stand to get out of it?"

"Don't know. But they have their eye on a place Liz knows something about–Angels' Ground."

"Then we have to get her here," Isabel declared. "And the others too. Maybe we can stop this war before it happens."

When Max arrived, only a little later, he heard space music (courtesy of Isabel) as soon as he entered. He followed it to the former storeroom, which had now been renovated (also courtesy of Isabel) into what enormous cut-out letters above the raised stage proclaimed to be the Orbit Lounge. Alex stepped up to him on his right and Isabel on his left, the one attired as a Buck Rogers counterpart of the night club emcee in the movie _Cabaret_, the other in a slinky hostess outfit to match. "Welcome to the Orbit Lounge, sir," the emcee greeted him, "your home away from your home–planet."

The hostess slipped a drink into her erstwhile brother's hand. "Here you are, sir. One Saturnian smoothie."

Max was convinced they had both gone daft. "Why did you summon me here?" he demanded. "What the hell's going on?"

"That's what I'd like to know." Max turned to see Michael at the entrance. "I'm only here because Liz insisted," said Michael.

Maria was there too, standing on the opposite side from him with her arms folded. "That makes two of us. Where is the girl?"

"Here!" said Liz, as she breezed in past them. "Sorry I'm late. I had to get rid of the customers."

"Wait a minute," said Michael. "Who's covering while your dad's gone?"

"Nobody. I just closed up. Since he's gone he'll never know."

"Ay, caramba," Maria murmured.

"Got that right," said Michael. They were as one on that score, at least. When someone over-disciplined like Liz threw the rules aside, who knew what might happen?

"I put up a sign," she told them, by way of exculpation. "It says we're sorry for the inconvenience."

"Yeah, that'll do it," said Michael, meaning the opposite.

Isabel stepped forward. "Max, you asked what's going on."

"What the _hell's_ going on," he corrected.

"Let's start with Liz. I think all of you are aware she's no longer high-risk."

"My blood is stronger than ever," Liz said proudly.

"Our mission here was to end the human race by mingling our blood with yours. But it turns out your blood works on ours too. Instead of a take-over, what you get is more of a merger."

Maria was not to be placated so easily. "But people have died–my dad for one. Your people killed them."

"_One_ person," said Michael. "Klima."

"And can you tell me the same urge isn't in you? In all of you?"

"Of course it is," said Isabel. "And _this_ is in you!" With a wave of her hand she restored the hate messages to the walls. Those who had not seen them were appalled, then angry. "But there's more to it than that," she continued. "The three of us are only _half_ Vallosan. Human genes were poured into us–everything that's in you is in us. But the opposite is true too. Everything that's in us is in you."

Maria set her chin stubbornly. "I don't accept that."

"We'll show you," said Liz. "Come on."

"Where to?"

"Where it all started for us. Angels' Ground."

So the six came to stand together on the plateau that was Angels' Ground, with the Jeep sitting where they had left it at the head of the drive. "The energy within our planet," explained Isabel, "drove its cities and its spaceships. It also entered into our genetic material. It makes us what we are."

"The same energy," said Liz, "exists in isolated pockets on Earth. Like this one. And the others Michael was looking for."

"BEAM is looking too," Alex noted. "At this one especially."

"That's because the strongest concentration is here," Liz replied. "And it was here the three of us–Maria, Alex, and I–were conceived. At the moment of our conception, the energy of this place soaked into us." She turned to Max. "Your blood could never have harmed me. You're within us. And we're within you. It's no accident we found each other."

"No man is an island, entire unto himself," Michael pronounced rather grandly.

"That's another quote, isn't it?" said Maria. She repeated it silently to herself. "But a very cool one. Muy chido." She smiled at him. Suddenly _everything_ was cool. But only with him, and them; outside that circle of safety lay Klima and who knew how many more. They had to stick together.

Max, who had thought it through on the drive up, had arrived at a similar conclusion, and now proposed it to the others. "In this war we can't take sides because we're on both sides. So we'll make our own side. We'll fight for we believe in–what's best in all of us, Vallosan or human. Wisdom. Respect. Love." He was standing at the edge that overlooked the town. Liz came up beside him and locked her hand in his. The others joined them, one by one, until all were standing shoulder to shoulder on the lip of the plateau.

"_My_ side is with you," Liz told Max solemnly. "I knew it before we ever met."

"I wouldn't be too sure of that." He was remembering the dream they had shared as children. As their eyes met, he imparted it to her.

Liz's face lit up. "That was _you_!" she said. "I understand now."

"I've been through the gate," said Max, "and I changed as I was meant to. But I was wrong about us. What we have hasn't changed. Since we were"–he lifted their linked hands–"this high. And it won't."

"Forever and always," Liz said.

"Forever," Max echoed her, "and always." The other couples repeated the vow, and all three sealed it with a kiss. As their lips touched, an aurora borealis filled the sky above them.

Liz laughed to see it. "_You're_ doing that!" she accused Max, as she had once before.

"_We're_ doing it," he said. They all watched the display in awe.

Then there came to them the growl of engines: a row of Jeeps was circling up the drive below. And then the knock of a hammer: two soldiers were pounding a sign into place at the foot of the hill. From now on the Ground would be off limits, and the rocks, and the woods. Things had changed, and they could all feel it, Max most of all. "And now," he said, "the battle for Roswell begins."

"There's a dark night ahead," said his sister. "I hope we see a dawn." They hurried back to the Jeep and drove down on the other side.

The three ship-borns, after they had dropped off their human partners, paid a call on the sheriff. Hearing a knock, he looked up from his paperwork to find the three of them already in the room, standing in front of the door. He eyed his holster, which was slung over a chair against the wall. "How'd you get past the front desk?" he asked.

"Side door," Max replied.

"It's locked."

"Not to us," said Isabel. "As you should know better than anyone."

Valenti recognized the significance of the admission. He wondered why it was being made to him; he hoped, not as a last request. "Oh, yeah?" he said noncommittally, and he rolled his chair nearer to the holster.

Isabel explained. "Alex trusts you. I trust Alex. Max trusts–well, you can work out the rest."

"And, you know," Michael added, "it's not like we have a lot of people to choose from."

"Jeez, you sure know how to make a guy feel wanted." Valenti considered. "Okay, not that I need it necessarily, but if you could provide a small demonstration–just to convince me my imagination's not running away with me."

Isabel raised her hand to volunteer, just like in class. On the desk sat a brass paperweight in the shape of a cannon. She stared at it until it turned brown. "Looks to me like chocolate," said Valenti.

"Try it."

He broke off a corner and nibbled on it. "Not bad, but–"

"It's never the same," said Max, ahead of his sister.

"No offense, but I preferred it in brass." Isabel changed it back, but with one corner still missing. Valenti turned it over meditatively. "Funny, my whole life I've been scared of you–of people like you, that is. Now I find I've been scared of the wrong people." He looked at Maria. "Ask your mom how she'd feel about having dinner guests this evening."

Her mom said she was okay with it, the evening came up in due course, and Liz and Max were the first of the guests to arrive–not counting Michael, who was helping in the kitchen. They all tried to blot out the voice that resounded through the streets, as it had the evening before. "And if you're asking yourself who's to blame," the voice thundered, "look no farther. It's _them_–the invaders–the monsters."

Amy heard that part of it as she let her guests in. "He's at it again?"

"Since the sun went down," said Max. "And he's sounding wilder all the time." Jim came to the door to listen.

"I don't like it," said Amy.

"I don't like _them_," Jim answered. "The Trivitts. Even though I know they're just plants. But it looks like this is their day."

Then the rest of the party showed up, practically on top of one another, and Amy greeted each in turn. "Deputy Owen. Mr.–Sadusky." The women did not ring a bell. "I don't know either of you, do I?"

"Jen."

"Kathleen."

"Wow!" Amy shook her head, as if she were fluffing her hair.

Maria looked around, puzzled. "Uh, why 'wow'?"

"As in, wow, what a wonderfully diverse community we'll be breaking focaccia with this evening!" She waved them inside. "I mean, think of the harmonics!"

"Oh, yeah," said Valenti, shutting the door. "_Them._"

Throughout dinner he hurried each course along so he would have plenty of time for a briefing afterwards. He began it before the others had finished the tiramisu. "Reason I asked you here," he said, "was, number one, so we could all get acquainted. Because we–most of us," he amended, glancing at Amy, "have something in common. Special knowledge, like."

"What kind of special knowledge?" Amy asked innocently.

Jim did his best to answer without answering. "Knowledge about–oh, what's going on in Roswell. Incidents other people aren't aware of. Stuff like that. So–"

"Well, _I_ certainly can't claim any such thing," Amy broke in. "No more than anybody else. And as for Milton here, or your deputy–no offense, I'm sure they're intelligent people, but–" She saw that the others were looking down or away. "I have a feeling I said something that was supposed to be left unsaid."

Valenti scratched his temple. "You have to tell her," said Maria.

Liz nodded. "She's bound to find out sooner or later."

"Find out what?" Amy asked.

Valenti looked down the table. "How about the rest of you?"

"I think it's too late to do anything else," said Max. There was a general drone of agreement.

Valenti sighed. "So be it. Amy–babe–jeez, where do I start?"

"Let me," said Isabel. "It'll be easier to take coming from another woman." She turned to Amy. "There's no way I can prepare you for what you're about to hear. A person's internal belief system is so fragile, so delicate, a thing like this could demolish it completely." She clasped Amy's hand. "Be brave."

By that point Amy was looking as befuddled as it was possible for a person to look. "I haven't the faintest idea what you're talking about."

"No, you don't. And the reason–you poor, unsuspecting dear–"

Michael, having tired of this exchange, and particularly of Isabel's part in it, cut to the chase. "Ms. Deluca? Keep your eyes on that dessert spoon." He focused on it, and it changed to a silver heart. He picked it up and handed it to Amy. "For our hostess." He forgot that it had been hers to begin with.

So did she. "Why, it's beautiful! Thank you!" Then the significance of it hit her. "Wait a minute! _You_ did that. Just by looking at it."

"_Little_ more complicated than that. But essentially, yeah."

"Then you're..." Michael shrugged apologetically. Amy's eyes moved to Isabel. "And you?" Isabel smiled. Then to Max. "And you?" Max nodded. She looked finally at Maria. "Not you, I hope?"

"No, no!" her daughter assured her.

Amy sat for a long time, absorbing it, while the others watched uncertainly. Finally she broke into laughter. "Well, this is just–_so great_!" Maria and her future stepfather exchanged looks of surprise. "All the time I've been selling these tacky alien doodads, the real thing's been right under my nose and I didn't see it."

"Then it doesn't shatter your world view?" Isabel asked hopefully.

"Honey, it _is_ my world view."

"You mean you've always believed in us?"

"No! I always thought it was a cartload of crap. A nice way to earn bread, but still a cartload of crap. No, my world view is that everything is always much screwier than we have any idea of. So this is just–the _perfect thing._"

Jim grabbed her hand. "I had a feeling we were made for each other. Now I'm sure of it."

"My God," said Maria. "I may be part of a functioning family unit. Will I be able to cope, I ask myself."

"Shut up," Michael said amiably–and to the surprise of everyone, including herself, she did.

Valenti resumed his briefing. "Okay, counting Amy, we're a dozen. The rest of the town is out there listening to that firebrand. If they get unruly–and I'm guessing they will–it'll be up to us to calm them down. I'm appointing you my deputies for tonight. Everybody okay with that?"

None of the party looked overjoyed, but most nodded. "Why'd you choose us?" asked Jen. "We're not trained or anything."

Valenti glanced at the ship-borns. "You came recommended."

"Hold on now," said Alex, somewhat belatedly. "Just us? Against all of them?"

"One of my regulars is out of town. The rest will have their hands full protecting the public buildings. I can radio for extra help but they'll be a spell getting here. In the meantime, we're it."

"Do we get weapons?" asked Milton.

"Just the ones that are authorized to carry them," Valenti replied. "Me, Deputy Owen, and Agent–excuse me, _Ms._–Topolsky. And of course some of us"–he glanced at the ship-borns–"have them built in. I'm hoping that'll be enough. If not, we'll proceed as the situation dictates."

"I don't know," said Alex. "It sounds–"

Valenti looked him in the eye. "Son, it's your town. Question is, are you willing to stand up for it?"

"The standing-up thing again. I see." He glanced at Isabel; she clutched his arm supportively. "Yeah, yeah," he said, "okay."

The crisis came sooner than any of them had anticipated; they first heard it at a distance through the windows. The crowd that Trivitt had been haranguing had cleared the tent and were now parading raggedly down Main Street with him at their head. "Whose town is this?" he shouted. "Is it yours? Is it?"

"_Yes!_" they shouted back at him.

"Then why are _they_ here?" He pointed to the Crashdown and the UFO Center. "You want to know why? Do you?"

"_Yes!_" they shouted again.

"Because they have allies here conspiring with them, sneaking them in–till before you know it there'll be more of them than there are of you. Then your days will be numbered. One clutch of that cold hand and you'll fall cold and lifeless, with a silver handprint on your chest. You and your families and your children–innocent babies. And any of you who survive they'll hunt down, and they'll turn their death machines on you–kill you slowly, without mercy–tear through your flesh and bone just to see how humans die. Is that what you want? Is it?"

"_No!_"

"Then get them! Get them! Get them before they get you! And the collaborators too–the quislings–the traitors! The ones who are hiding them! You know where they are! There! And there! Find them! Kill them! Kill the nehis! The e.t.s!" (He pronounced it "eaties.") "And the e.t. lovers–the bleeding hearts–the ones who are different–the ones who don't belong! You know who they are! And you know what to do with them!"

A man in the crowd held up a lighter and flicked it to life. "Burn them!"

"Yes!" Len hissed, his eyes gleaming wildly. "Yes! Burn them! Burn them all!" The mob responded with cries of bloodlust.

Michele, who had been watching in growing alarm, saw that her husband and the rest of them had passed beyond reason. "Len, stop!" she cried.

But it was too late. All those around her were possessed with the same fury, and now it exploded in their midst, propelling them this way and that–but all of them in the same few ways, so that without purposing it they grouped into smaller but more or less cohesive bands. Only one person stayed aloof: an old man with a _Roswell Daily Record_ tucked under his arm. He retreated to the shadow of a storefront to watch.

One of the bands broke into the UFO Center and dragged out the dummy alien, along with a length of bundling cord, which they wrapped around its neck and used to hang it from a lamppost. Someone set a lighter to the figure, and within seconds it was ablaze, to the cheers of the ravagers. Another of the bands assaulted the Crashdown. Some rammed at the doors; others hurled rocks at the saucer over the doors; three began to scale the wall. Jeff stuck his head out his bedroom window. "Hey, you!" he shouted. "Get off of there!" The attackers began to pelt him too. The old man in the shadows smiled.

The disturbance brought out the armed half of the sheriff's posse: himself, Owen, Topolsky, and the three ship-borns. He had left the others at Amy's to watch that end of town, to which the hysteria had not penetrated yet. He led his contingent to the intersection of Maple Street (Amy's street) and Main, from which they could see the frenzy spreading throughout the business quarter. The three teens saw people they knew, people they liked, or did not like: their teachers, their principal, kids from school, store owners–and fathers. Isabel clutched Max's arm. "I saw Dad!" And then she did not see him. "Do you see Mom?" Her eyes searched the crowd.

"You three," Valenti said, "it's time. Whatever you can do, do it. We'll be your back-up."

"But our parents–" Isabel began.

"Hey, we've all got friends and relatives out there. Best thing you can do for them is put a stop to this craziness."

"Isabel, he's right," said Max. But she had realized it before he said it.

The two of them and Michael looked at one another, and found themselves instantly welded into a single consciousness. "It's like back in the ship," said Michael. "I'm having thoughts that aren't mine. And mine are swimming around in this pool that's three times as big as it was."

Isabel smiled. "I believe it's called being of one mind."

Together they formed a plan faster than they could have spoken it. They turned toward one of the marauding bands, and then to the asphalt at its feet. The marauders found themselves sinking into a lake of black gelatin–but gelatin that clung to their legs and would not permit them to advance.

And now the old man stepped out of the shadows. He pointed his rolled-up newspaper at the captives. Moving as one, they ceased struggling and dropped their eyes to the gelatin, which rolled back in a wave, as if it had been icing on a cake. The wave changed course toward the ship-borns, and then itself changed, into a rolling bank of hot lava. The ship-borns raised up a glacier, waist-high, which blocked it. The lava hissed and steamed against the ice and then burbled away to nothing. "How'd they do that?" asked Michael.

Behind the crowd the old man had stopped to rest against a lamppost and was fumbling with a segmented pill holder. No sooner had Michael seen him than an unspoken exchange took place between him and the others.

_Klima–_

–_powering them–_

–_by channeling energy–_

–_from one of the map sites–_

–_the only one close enough–_

–_the one we haven't identified–_

–_and he's using the Lodestone–_

–_but it was lost–_

–_then the Stones from the cave–_

–_but I hid them–_

–and of course Michael knew where he had hidden them, and so of course they all did.

Now Max spoke aloud; speech seemed to give his commands greater force. "We may be able to use them against him. Michael, you and I will go get them. Isabel, bring the others." She knew which three he meant. "We may need them too." He and Michael departed for the school, and Isabel for the Delucas'.

The Earthly members of Valenti's contingent had been standing a little apart, powerless to do more than watch as the magic show unfolded. Now they were not sure what to do. During Klima's weak spell his unknowing agents had lost their impetus and were standing sluggishly, swaying a little. "Let's keep our eye on 'em," said Valenti. "See what they do next." The others looked doubtful. "Anybody got a better plan?" Nobody had. So they remained where they were, taking no action but monitoring the now-dormant rioters.

Turning onto Maple Street, Isabel failed to see the figure crouching in the bushes at the corner. As she passed, he sprang out at her. "The blood!" he cried. "The poison in the blood!" His speech was thick and slurred. His hands grabbed at her neck. Without thinking, Isabel dug her nails into one of them and used the contact to send his animus back at him. He collapsed onto the pavement, clutching his head; a moment later he was out. Only then did she recognize him as Grunewald, and she felt pity for him. "I wish I could help you," she said. "But you've gone beyond a place where that's possible." Besides, she had her duty to carry out. So she left him lying.

At the Delucas', there were always alien-themed trinkets hanging from the deodars in the yard, both for decoration and for sale, if anyone asked to buy. One of the bands of raiders had spied them and were plucking them down to tear asunder or to crush underfoot. Isabel arrived to find Amy and the others trying to fight off the intruders. She changed the grass around their feet to cement, which set instantly, pinning them where they stood. They struggled vainly to free themselves. "Come with me," she ordered the three teens. "We need you." As the adults began to follow she held up a hand. "Sorry, kids' night." Watching them go, Amy felt a little like the grown-up Wendy watching her daughter fly off to the Neverland.

She perked up again on realizing that she now had in her power the people who had destroyed her handiwork. She picked up a baseball bat one of them had dropped and then she circled them, smacking it against her cupped hand. "You know how long it took me to make those? You–" She drew the bat back as if to swing; the captives cowered away. Then she lowered it again. "–are _so_ lucky I'm a pacifist," she finished. Her fellow deputies, Milton and Jen, were patrolling the street; the immediate neighborhood was quiet. So she went inside.

The captives, perforce, remained as they were. Then after a minute they tensed, all at the same time, as if the same electric current were passing through them all. Together they turned their heads toward the cement at their feet. It melted into water, freeing them. They moved in a body out of the yard and toward the school. In other parts of town, other groups were doing the same.

Max and Michael were at the school already. Michael withdrew the Stones from the base of the sign–and they were glowing; their blue light showed through the sack. "They weren't doing that before," he said. Both boys realized what it meant, but Max was faster at putting it into words. "This is the last site on the map! West Roswell High! I bet if we knew the history–"

"We know the year it was started," said Michael.

They moved to the bronze dedication plaque at the top of the steps. "'1947,'" Max read. "The year we landed." The coincidence had not struck him before. "Maybe it was put here just for us."

"The plaque?"

"The whole school."

They had no time to weigh the theory then, for Isabel and those she had been sent to fetch came running up the steps, followed at a distance by the mob. It had now regrouped into a single organic unit, many-bodied, single-brained, and that brain guided and goaded by its creator, who was walking alongside driving his herd. "It's _them_!" he shouted. "The strangers! The wrong ones! Kill them!"

Under his sway and fueled by whatever power he was wielding, his minions turned the school steps into a thick ooze, veined with blood and lightning. It distended and reared up over Max and the others like a giant jellyfish. Michael, who was carrying the Stones, changed it to a ball of green fungus, which then exploded, spraying their attackers with slimy mold. "Nice one," Max commented.

"He's channeling the energy of this place," said Isabel. She could have flashed the message silently to the two of them but spoke it aloud for the benefit of the rest. "And using them as a conduit."

"Which can go in either direction," Max pointed out. "We'll run the energy into ourselves."

"Can we handle it?" asked Michael.

"With the Stones, I think so."

Michael opened the sack and began passing them out, like treats from Santa's bag. But there was one too few. "That's okay," Alex said, "really." He stepped away.

But Isabel was not about to let him off that easily. She grabbed his arm and pulled him back. "We'll share," she said firmly.

The six lined up and raised the Stones in unison. The Earth kids felt the Vallosans steering their thoughts into the right paths, which were (literally) alien to them. Yet they as well as the others could sense that something was off: the power was there, but it was unequal to the task, weak and distant.

Michael was the first to see what the problem was. "V formation!" he directed. "The signature pattern! That's the way the energy has to flow!" So they realigned themselves like the icons on the map, with Max at their apex, and immediately the energy began to rush into them. "Can you feel it?" Max shouted to Liz.

"Max, my God! It's like the best–" Even in those straits, her sense of decorum censored the thought. "–massage ever," she finished. Her body and those of the others had become receptacles for its power, and took on auras of the same otherworldly blue.

And then something else intruded on her consciousness: a force pulling her where she did not want to go; pulling her toward Klima. It was too much for her, or for any or all of them, to resist long. He was holding his rolled-up newspaper pointed in their direction; from inside, through the layers of newsprint, a light shone brightly. And suddenly the paper blew off, as if in a high wind, to reveal what it had been concealing. "The Lodestone!" Michael cried. "He found it somehow." But its light was no longer blue. Now it was a fiery red.

"It's drawing the other Stones!" said Isabel.

"And us!" said Max. "He's using all that energy we absorbed to suck us in. We'll have to discharge."

"In which direction?" Michael asked.

"_Guess._"

Max trained his eyes on Klima, and, following his lead, the others did the same. Uniting into a single force, the novice Earthlings riding on the backs of the more seasoned Vallosans, they fired with all the power in their joint arsenal. Klima did not see it coming. The impact of the hit knocked him back several yards, and onto his knees. When he looked up, he had a different face, and an older one. It cost him much effort to pick himself up, and with a hobbling gait he returned into the shadows, where he vanished. "Took care of _him_," said Maria.

Michael shook his head. "Wish it was that easy."

Then he and the others, again in silent communion, worked to undo the damage that had been done, everywhere it had been done. Those who had done it were now cut loose from their tether and remembered next to nothing of what had happened after they had entered the tent earlier in the evening. Deprived of purpose and of understanding, seeking comfort and peace of mind where it was soonest found, they began to leave for their homes, a few at a time.

Valenti found Len Trivitt sitting on a curb, looking as confused as his former disciples. His wife ran up and sat at his side. "Len! Are you all right?"

"What happened?" he asked her. "What the hell happened?"

Valenti regarded the two of them coldly. "Musta been aliens."

"Aliens?" said Len. "There are no aliens. That was all–" He stopped, realizing his slip.

"A hoax?" said Valenti. "I thought you two were the great alien experts."

Len lowered his head. "That was a performance," said Michele. "We don't know any more about them than that speech you heard. It was part of the packet we were handed. We were sent here to plant the seed of suspicion in people's minds."

"Sent by BEAM?"

Michele showed her surprise. "How did you find that out?" She saw he was not going to tell her. "Yes," she said. "But it's bigger than that."

"How much bigger?" Valenti asked. This Michele could not or would not say. "How many others were sent?" he went on. "To how many other towns?"

"You think they'd tell _us_?" She seemed sincerely distressed. "It was never supposed to come down this way." Her face took on a dark look. "I don't believe we were the only agents at work out there."

Valenti stared at her impassively. "You want to be careful what you say, Mich. That kind of crazy talk can break up a family." Michele appeared suitably chastened.

"Okay," said Valenti, "get up, the pair of you. You're both under arrest for inciting to riot." He raised his voice to reach what was left of the crowd. "The rest of you, go home. Hell night's over." And everybody went.

...yet the six–the ship-borns and their Earthly complement–were somehow still there. And somehow it was now daytime. Yet apart from themselves the campus was deserted. Their footsteps echoed in the stillness as they walked to the edge of the quad and stared across the empty concrete expanse.

"Didn't we go home?" Alex asked. "I could have sworn we went home."

"A long time ago," Isabel agreed.

"Then what are we doing here?" said Max.

Liz knew. "We have to be here." She pointed to a banner above their heads. "It's Homecoming Day."

"Everything looks normal," said Maria. "That is, apart from the total absence of living organisms."

"Not quite normal," said Michael. His eyes were on the banner. "Homecoming's in the fall."

"We're dreaming!" said Isabel. She was amazed at herself for not having spotted it sooner. "It's a dream we've created for ourselves."

"Not me," Liz declared. "I'd never dream of a place with nobody in it."

"Oh, no," said Alex. He rushed off with a worried look on his face. His comrades, puzzled, followed him down the halls and into a classroom. "My home room," he said. He checked the roll book on the teacher's desk. "My name." He held it up for them to see: his was the only name written on the page, or on any of the pages. "My dream. My ideal. Alex all by himself, with no one left to be afraid of." He looked sheepishly at Isabel. "Sorry, Is. I'm still a frightened small-town boy. And my fear's imprisoning all of us."

"Don't let it!" Isabel urged him. "Fight it!"

"I don't think I can."

"Try."

He tried, but faltered. "It's no good."

Isabel grabbed both his hands. "Alex! Really _try._" She stared into his eyes, and into his mind–his waking mind, but this was where his nightmares fed; terrible forms–and terrors without form–overhung on all sides. "My God, Alex! How long has it been in this state?"

"As long as I can remember."

"I think it's time we cleaned house." Concentrating, Isabel summoned up all the resolve she could and spread it to Alex, dividing it with him as if they were sharing a sundae together; she had enough for both of them. With her reinforcement, Alex was able to push his fears back, and kept pushing until they dissolved into the walls of his mind; they were not gone but were now mingled with his other thoughts and feelings, in the right proportion. He felt a relief deeper than any he had known since he was a small boy. "Gosh, Is," he said.

But then–

They were at the Orbit Lounge, dancing; the dance floor was dark and crowded; overlapping spotlights, in a range of colors never seen on Earth, skittered about on the walls. The crowd was mixed: an intergalactic petting zoo comprising extraterrestrials of every conceivable shape and feature. Then the lights went out, and the aliens turned on them, thrusting at them with their claws and maws–

"Maria!" Liz said sharply. "This has to be your dream. Snap out of it!" She gave Maria a shake. The monsters vanished.

But then–

They were in the Crashdown. No monsters here, nothing to fear–except the man who was about to shoot his partner. Maria looked at Liz. "This one's yours, kid." The man pulled his gun. Liz was standing in the line of fire as she had been that day, but this time she was smiling calmly. "Um, shouldn't you move or something?" Maria suggested.

"It's all right. My biggest fear used to be dying. But Max took that away." And sure enough, the bullet passed through her without effect.

But then–

They were in Hank's trailer, with Hank. "Aw, gimme a break," said Michael.

Isabel realized what was happening. "It's Klima, using the dream power against us." Then she realized something else. "Only women possess the power. That means–"

And then–

It was nighttime again. They were in the school stadium. The scoreboard above traced out the spiral rune in yellow lights. The bleachers were filled. All of Roswell was there...

But they were not only in Roswell. They were also on Vallosa, on one of its eternal battlefields among the dead, the wounded, and those eternally killing; and what were bleachers in the other world were here barbed-wire cages, and the spectators in the stands were prisoners...

They saw both scenes at once, in dual focus. They were existing on two planes of reality, one more than they were used to. Below the stadium lay the nucleus of the energy that resided there, and it empowered them to bridge both space and time. For Vallosa was gone; its death plains were gone. The six of them were both then and now, both there and here.

A figure was crossing the field toward them: Klima, in her true form, which encompassed all her forms: a hundred-headed goddess, with all the heads contained in one. And she was bearing the Lodestone. Its spiral radiated a blinding light, like a sun's light–not blue, but red.

"Now you know," she said, "what the rune signifies. You see it–you feel it. Hatred, always and everlasting. This is the only truth, the only source of victory. Many Vallosans fought all their lives and never learned that." She lifted the Stone high above her head. "Behold _my_ dream." Red beams shot out from it in all directions; the sudden surge of energy caused her to stagger a little.

"You can't frighten us!" Alex shouted. Then he corrected himself. "Actually, you can. But it won't do you any good."

Klima regarded them with disdain. "You would resist me. Yet your own hatred draws you." The Stones they were holding–which they now realized they had been holding them all along–were glowing blue, yet red was beginning to creep in at their edges. Again they felt the power of the greater Stone pulling them. The three Earthlings were horrified to feel within them a loathing that was not theirs, and still more horrified to see the faces of the ship-borns contorted with it: they all looked like Klima. Liz had said she "hated" Pam Troy, but now she knew she had never truly hated–and, she hoped, never could.

Klima laughed with greedy delight. "You're mine. And you won't be alone. Who knows how many others there may be? An army at my command. We'll uncover all the wells of power and fuse them into a force such as this world has never seen–the force of hate."

Liz grabbed Max by the arm. "Don't listen to her, Max! That's not who you really are–any of you!" After a moment, his face relaxed and was as it had been, and so were the others'.

But Liz knew she had not done it. At the far end of the field–both fields, the stadium and the battleground–another figure was standing. He called out to Klima. "You speak by halves, sister. As always."

Klima turned with a sneer. "If it isn't my brother! The monk–the hermit." _Brother and sister_, thought Liz. _My God, no wonder they're always fighting._

"Neither monk nor hermit, dream twister," Feddin retorted. "But one who sees both halves of the circle–the dark and the light."

Shrieking with rage, Klima turned the Stone on Feddin. A red shaft shot out of toward him. Then another. And another. He dodged them as he continued his approach. But each of his steps fell more weakly than the last. The red bolts grew weaker too. The powers of the two Vallosans were waning, eroded by the very energy that enabled them.

At last Feddin stopped in front of his sister. She drew back, but not far enough. He laid his hand on the Lodestone, and its light shifted from red to blue. Feddin turned to the six. "In the sandwriting of our dead world," he said, "this rune signifies hatred. That much is so. But it also signifies love. The two are halves of the same circle. Each is the only power that can defeat the other. Neither can be defined, only discovered. And the discovery can only happen within yourself. Some of you have discovered hatred. Others"–he looked at the Earthlings–"have yet to." His voice enlarged to resound over the whole field. "But how much greater is the power of your love!"

As they listened any dark feelings they had harbored were swept away, to be replaced by pure light: the blue light of the Stones they were holding. It all poured into the great Stone, the one Stone, which flashed a brilliant white and then burst into a thousand gleaming slivers; the spectacle of it was like Roswell's yearly Fourth of July display, only bigger and better. Klima was thrown back several yards; Feddin stood his ground. But what had disintegrated, the others saw at once, was only an outer shell; the thing it had encased was intact, exposed–and it was hurtling toward them. Max made a leap for it; Liz did the same, but two seconds sooner. As the others gathered around she opened her hand to reveal a round yellow gem, like the others but larger. "Behold the Lodestone," said Feddin, "freed of its confines. It should be borne by the one in whom the power of love is strongest."

Liz offered it to Max. He shook his head. "By rights it belongs to you." Feddin nodded his approval.

"Then it belongs to us all," said Liz. She gave Alex her smaller Stone so that each of them had one. Without another word they moved into the V formation.

But now they were one too many. "Where will you stand?" Max asked Liz.

"Where the ship stood." she said.

"The sixth symbol," Max murmured.

Liz nodded. "It knew what you had to do all along."

When she had taken her place they all lifted their Stones and extended them toward the center of the V. Their hands were glowing blue. The glow spread up their arms and to their whole bodies, and blue rays emanated from each of them to all the others, forming a web of blue light, as if they were suns in themselves. They felt flowing through them what they could only have described as goodness: the essential goodness of the universe. When it had filled them completely they opened their hands to reveal–nothing. The transfer was complete; the power of the Stones had passed into them.

They looked around for Klima, but she was gone. So were the football crowd and the corpses of the field. Only Feddin remained. "Is it over?" Alex asked him. "I think it's over."

Feddin looked kindly on them. "Not for you. For you are now the guardians of the citadel–you and such allies as you can muster. The war for this world begins here. With luck, it may end here. Our day–mine and Klima's–is past. The future is yours."

"We don't mind," Liz said. "Honestly, we don't. Only–first, could we get some sleep? For some reason I can't keep my eyes open."

"Return to your beds, my children." His voice echoed in their heads. "For in truth you never left them. All that has passed"–the voice began to fade–"was in the dreamtime."

On the last words, Liz opened her eyes to find herself in her room. Now she remembered having gone home hours before. Her head sank into the pile of pillows and she returned to sleep. But this time it would be a sleep free of false dreams. The six of them had prevailed, tonight. But there would be more nights to come.

The following Sunday a pair of visitors slid chairs up to the bed where Jim, Sr. lay with his eyes shut. "Clock's winding down," the orderly had told Junior. He was one of the pair; the other was a girl his father would not have recognized even if he had been aware of her. Very gently she took his hand, and very gently reached into him.

He opened his eyes. They took her in, and then they took in his son. "Jimmy!" he said. "Why didn't you tell me? I was right the whole time." He was not angry, but happy: vindicated at last. "You oughta had told me," he said.

Junior struggled to hold back his tears. "Only _part_ right, Pop. You figured them for the bad guys. And the one you were tracking was one of the worst. But some of 'em"–he glanced at Isabel–"are the closest thing to angels we're likely to see."

"Reckon I'm–'bout due to find–out." The last word was little more than a gasp; there was no more strength in him. He shut his eyes again.

"He's going," said Isabel. "Shall I let him?"

His son nodded. She released the old man's hand. His breathing became shorter, and soon it stopped. He was at peace finally, and it showed in his face. Jim let the tears roll now, and through them he looked across at Isabel. "Thank you," he said.

She smiled. "He was a kind man. A good man."

"I'm glad you saw that in him. Not many people did, later on. But he was doing his best, you know? Trying to deal with it."

"You mean, with us," said Isabel. "I know. We all have to learn to do that."

When they emerged the other five were waiting outside. Alex saw a grace in Isabel's countenance that had not been there before. She moved to him and clasped his hand.

Then the sheriff spoke. "I got something to say to you three. And your friends here." He paused, searching for the right words. "A lot of people have been hurt on account of you being here. Not your fault, it's just how things played out. But you can help. You can fix it for some of 'em. And keep other people from getting hurt too. Nobody else can do that. It's your–calling, so to speak. So would you think about it? Please, just–think about it?"

Each of the six glanced at the others.

"I'm in," said Michael.

"All opposed?" Maria asked. There was a silence.

"So," said Max," tomorrow we start saving the world."

"Not tomorrow," said Liz. "We've got school–really, this time." The others groaned; in the fuss it had slipped their minds.

"Dear journal," Liz wrote that evening, "you may be wondering why you haven't heard from me in, like, forever. It seems that the more caught up in life you are, the less you have to say about it. I used to confide to you all my hopes and expectations. And now guess what? Not only have they all come true, more things have happened to me than I ever dreamed of. And it just doesn't stop. So I have a feeling you won't be hearing from me for a while. Hope you won't mind. Good night. Yours truly, Liz."

She shut the book. Then she crossed to the window and leaned out. She stared into the sky, past the V pattern to a true star: Polaris, the fixed center of an ever-revolving wheel. And to its truth she addressed a prayer:

"Star light, star bright

First star I see tonight

Wish I may, wish I might

Have the wish I wish tonight."

She turned to the boy who had been standing silently behind her the whole time, waiting for her to finish. She was all his now. And he was hers. Forever and always. Their two bodies united–arms, lips, all that could meet or be met–tinged, as if by magic, with the silver of the celestial lights.


End file.
